I has fanfiction, chu~ <3
Yep, yep. I have more Confession of the Mad and Addicted for you guys. Pretty much, I'll be publishing these two stories in joint posts, henceforth. Enjoy!
Haven't read the first installment?
Confessions of the Mad
Summary: Sometimes, one is a victim of circumstance. Other times, one cannot help but give into the chaos within. But what is human? An anthology of the thoughts, reflections, motives, and conflicts of Crona Gorgon. Told in first person. Drabble series. No pairing
Rated: Teen - violence, some swearing, angsts
Genre: General/Hurt/Comfort
Chapters: 2 (more to come)
Addicted
Summary: Based on the song "Addicted" by Kelly Clarkson. Maka finds the young shinigami fascinating and riveting, but will she allow the darkness in him to consume her? How will she cope with the damage that is left of Death the Kid? Drabble series. Dark KidxMaka.
Rated: Teen - concepts of rape/sexual assault, violence, language
Genre: Romance/Angst
Chapters: 3 (more to come)
Confessions of the Mad
Chapter 2: Melody
Post-Christmas arc. During trail-run arc, part 1. Crona's thoughts while touring Shibusen with Maka.
She watches me as we walk. I'm shy, and attempt to hide as she guides me down yet another hall. Her smile is brilliantly radiant. It blinds me, and warms me. It hugs me. She giggles as I stick myself to the wall, determined not to turn the corner. There's too many people. She pauses, and looks back at me. Her huge apple-green eyes are soft and beautiful, and I can see velvet auroras stir inside them as she holds out a hand.
"Crona! C'mon, don't be scared." And she smiles again. I think her laughter sounds like sunshine. I cautiously allow her to take my hand, and she smiles at me as we round the corner. Her palm is warm and rough, and she squeezes me fingers slightly before releasing them. I look about myself carefully, and startle when I hear a shout.
"Maka! What's up?" I watch as she turns, and she smiles and waves high over her head.
"Kim! Jackie!! I'm just showing Crona-chan around school."
Two girls walked up. One has short pink hair, a lot like me, and piercing bright-green eyes. The other girl is beautiful, with long, dark shiny hair and slanted black eyes. I smile and wave awkwardly. I squeak as the girl with pink hair leans in, "Are you that demon sword?" Maka pushes the girl back, and her eyes are stern.
"Don't scare Crona, she's timid. And be nice, Kim."
Kim shrugs, "Whatever. Well, have fun Crona. Bye!" She waved, and I watch as they continue down the hall. A sunny giggle next to me catches my attention, and I smile softly as Maka laughs.
"C'mon, I want to show you the balcony!"
"Wh-what's that?"
"You'll see. C'mon!"
Her warm, gentle hand wraps around my wrist, and she softly pulls me along. This was the girl who had reached me. I sat alone for such a long time, in my lonely circle drawn in the desert sand. My shadow questioned me. Berated me. I always passed. All I remember is blinding, hot yellow. It yawned and stretched at me, and the color laughed at me, freakish and vast. The yellow was topped by the blinding blue of the hot, electric sky. There was nothing but the endless sound of cicadas, and the scratch of my stick through the grains of sand as I counted my passes. The blinding, terrible-and-soupy yellow falling against the electric tension of that sweating blue sky. The obnoxious colors laughed at me, mocked me, and I retreated to that horribly colorful haven every time I couldn't deal with things.
She is soft, cool, green and ashy, wintery yellow-blonde; soft pastel colors and bright, vibrant red. She filled up my empty stage with her melody. It's like she handed me something tangible, when it used to simply slip through my fingers. I can touch it, caress it, feel it. The song resonates with every step she takes as we walk down the hall, the pounded keys on a piano as the melody strikes its godly, beautiful chords. I'm here, Crona. I won't leave you. I won't leave you. I'm here. Take my hand. Let's go up to the balcony, Crona-chan.
It's an area on Shibusen's roof. The cobbled stone clicks beneath my shoes as we approach the edge. Marie-sensei is there. I immediately scramble to the wall, and hunch over. I hide. Heights frighten me. I don't know how to deal with heights.
"Crona! Come and lift you head." Sunshine smile looks me in the face. She giggles. I slowly raise my head, and allow my eyes to peek over the edge. I gasp. The view is incredible, and I can see so much of Death City from here. Colorful, twisted buildings are spread out below me, and I can see for the first time a good portion of the historical Death City that everyone always talks about. A breeze tugs at our hair and clothing. Nevada is breathing, again.
I think I'll stay here for a while.
I'll keep listening to her melody.
It's a good one.
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Addicted
Chapter 2: Nicotine
It's like you're a leech.
Sucking the life
from me.
It's like I can't breathe.
Without you
inside of me.
And I know
I let you
have all the power.
And I realize
I'm never gonna
quit you over time.
Maka shuffled her feet nervously as she stared at herself in the mirror. She bit her lip and turned to the side, inspecting how far her bust protruded from her body. Damn. She hoped Kid wouldn't be
(disappointed.)
The bodice of the red dress hugged her slender form easily. The skirt flared from her hips, and ended in red crinoline ruffles, under which white ruffles were layered. She wore a white lace scarf around her neck, and red evening gloves. This would be her first real date with the shinigami. She hoped he wouldn't be too
(subdued.)
He had changed so much.
She bit her lip and turned so her back was to the mirror, and stared over her shoulder, so her eyes could trace over the corset back, laced up with white ribbon, and tied off in a large, flourishing bow at her waist. He was taking her to a fancy, expensive restaurant. Of course, the Death family was a family of immortals-money was
(trivial)
to them. She fingered her dark-blonde hair, which fell down her back, all the way to her shoulder blades. She had just pulled it back into a half-ponytail, and tied a simple red ribbon in her hair. A knock on the door made her jump.
"Kid is here." Soul called.
Maka shakily opened her bedroom door, and stepped out, her patented red leather shoes clicking on the tile of her bedroom floor. Soul's eyes widened when he saw Maka, "Oi, Kid! Where do you get such pretty girls, and can I have one?" Maka smiled gently at her weapon's compliment, but it quickly disappeared as she absorbed the baritone
(sardonic?)
chuckle issuing from the doorway. She slowly rounded the corner and came within Kid's line of sight, staring demurely at the floor. She heard a soft gasp, and then silence. She looked up, huge green doe-eyes meeting slanted,
(darkenedby THATbut THAT’Snevertalkedabout)
exotic, molten-gold eyes. Kid was smiling softly, his head tilted to the side, "You look gorgeous."
Maka felt her face heat up, "Th-thank you."
"You could be the goddess of love."
Maka's face managed to turn twice as red, "Um . . . thanks . . ." She was sure her skin now matched her dress. Well, at least it didn't clash with the white. She heard him shift on his feet, and her eyes flickered up to his. He had taken on that stance, something about it
(ohthereitis THATit’snever talkedabout)
was defensive, yet perfectly normal. He held out a hand to her, "Shall we go?" Maka nodded, and walked forward, and took his hand. His posture relaxed, and Maka released a breath she didn't know she was holding. He led her out to the car, a sleek black Mercedes. He opened the passenger door for her, like a true gentleman, yet his eyes were not the clear
(ohthereitisthereitis THAT itisTHAT butTHAT isnevertalkedabout)
gold they used to be. Maka smiled softly at him, and slid in, gathering her skirt inside before Kid shut the door. She leaned back against the seat and pulled on her seatbelt as he settled in on the other side. She watched him as he paused, staring at the keys in his lap. Maka studied him curiously, wondering what was wrong. Finally, he spoke, "Maka. You don't think less of me because of what happened to me, right? You don't think the fact that
(ohthereritisTHAT isbeingspokenof nononodon't wannaspeakofTHAT)
I'm no longer a virgin is . . . bad, right?" He said it with much difficulty. Maka sighed.
"Oh, Kid. What Noah did to you was . . . he was messed up. People like him don't-they don't understand things like love and-" Maka's voice cut off, as she struggled with what to say. Kid's face was pained; obviously, he was having a very hard time with this. She watched him swallow, and he started the car. It was awkwardly silent for the entire drive. Maka didn't know quite what to say. He was obviously having a very hard time with this. But the fact that
(becuasesomehow thesilenceisworsethan hisheartscreamingatyou)
he shut down, every time it seemed to cross his mind. It was always there, on his mind, and it violated the way he was. His thoughts, his words, his actions-it clung to him like a disease. It was like an invisible parasite that Maka could see; constantly clinging and sucking.
They finally arrived to the restaurant, and Maka breathed with relief as Kid smiled across to her as he shut off the car. He got out, and walked around to open the door for her. Maka beamed up at him, and took his offered hand. She squeezed his fingers slightly, warm through her thin gloves. He squeezed back. He waited patiently for the man beside them to get out. Next thing Maka knew, her hand was being crushed, and Kid's breathing
(youcanhearhim youcanhearhimohgod youcanhearhimstillscreaming)
had become shallow. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated in fear. Maka looked to the man getting out, and saw that he was a young man, wearing a plaid hat, and had light brown hair and brown eyes. He looked like him. Maka squeezed Kid's hand, "It's not him. It's not. You're safe."
Kid nodded stiffly, obviously still terrorized out of his wits, and only relaxed when the man had left to go into the restaurant. Maka watched as he collapsed back against the car, and shoved his hands into his face. He was shaking. Maka reached out a tentative hand and touched his arm. He squeaked and jerked away, "D-don't!"
Maka withdrew her hand. It was like watching something beautiful slowly die. She wasn't quite sure what to do or say. Eventually, the shaking subsided, and he slowly looked up. His cheeks were wet, and his eyes looked tired. He wiped at his cheeks stubbornly, and nodded firmly to Maka, "I'm okay." But his eyes were so dark, dark, dark, and sad and fathomed and so, so lost. Maka didn't want to know
(hiseyes hiseyes theyneverstophurting henevereverstopshurting)
what horrors he had just relived. It made her feel scared and terrified and small and helpless, and Maka just simply didn't know what to do with that. Scared and terrified and small and helpless were never explained in the many textbooks Shibusen required meisters and weapons to read. She followed the young shinigami into the restaurant, watching his tensed back carefully. They were quickly seated, thanks to Kid's status as a young Death Prince, and Maka began looking over her menu. Or trying. His eyes were still over-bright and strained, and his body would not fully relax as he remained on tenterhooks. He looked like a smoker trying to get over their addiction to
(nicotine.)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 3: Cocaine
It's like I can't breathe!
It's like I can't see anything!
Nothing but you!
I'm addicted to you!
It's like I can't think.
Without you
interrupting me.
In my thoughts,
in my dreams,
you've taken over me.
It's like I'm not me. . .
It's like I'm not me
She sat curled in his lap, his arms tight around her. His cheek was pressed against her hair, and his fingers pressed into her ribs. Her legs were draped over his. Dark gold eyes glowered at the counselor. Maka listened to his breathing, the soft in, out, in, out, as the counselor repeated the question.
"And how do you feel about that?"
"You don't want to know." A dark tone hinted his voice.
"I think I do."
"You don't." Eyes glazed over, sunshine turning dull, as memories returned
(I weep. I scream. I struggle. I pray. I hope.)
unbidden to his head. Maka can watch it behind his eyes, but she doesn't want to see. He shifts, the long, well-muscled body pressing into hers. Kid's cheek rubs over her fine hair. He had insisted that he hold her. He said it helped. Maka agreed. The counselor was a short, balding man. His grayish-brown hair was thin at the top, and he had a cold. His nose was huge and red. It glared at Maka. He sniffed.
"Kid-sama, if we don't talk about this, then you won't get anywhere. Rape is a serious-"
"It won't do anything." His arms tightened around the girl. She closed huge, sad velvet green eyes, and listened to the lilt of his voice. His fingers were tracing her ribs, now, through her thin blouse. Maka pressed her lips to his neck. He pulled her ever-closer. For everytime she would
(weep)
for him, sucking in the air and breathing it out, something would chink at her heart. He made no progress, he did not move forward, he stayed where he was. It had been three months since his return. Maka's edges were beginning to crack. He still nightmared, and most nights, Maka spent the night at Gallows. Liz insisted and Soul begrudged it. Patti, as always, was optimistic.
"I really would like to end this session, now." Kid's fingers were almost painful around her ribs. His voice
(I weep. I scream. I struggle. I pray. I hope.)
was dead. Maka felt her heart sink at the sound. Mostly, these days, he resigned himself to dogged obligation. Don't forget your misery . . . It clung to him, as though assigned. Maka was the only one who managed to make him smile, these days, as the insanity and memories and oh-he-was-raped-he-was-he-was-don't-cry-now-don't crept up and began to weigh on him. It weighed on her, too, but she would endure it. She loved him. It was whispered to him, one night after he'd woken from his usual nightmares.
"Alright, then. If that's what you want . . . I hope you have been taking your medication."
Kid simply scowled. An antidepressant that was potent enough to surpass his supernatural metabolism had been found. He didn't take it.
"Yes. I have." The body under hers moved, and Maka slowly, lazily, unfolded herself from his lap. She stood, and held out a hand for him. He smiled up at her, a small, soft sweet gift saved just for her, and took it.
"Fucking counselor." It was muttered as soon as they were out of earshot, "I don't know what progress Chichiue thinks I'll make, seeing anyone . . ."
Maka was silent and let him rant. It was always like this. This was the fifth one they'd seen, and thus far, he'd turned them all down. But, Kid had always respected and listened to his father. He squeezed her hand, and kissed her cheek, smiling again. It was a relief to see him smile at her. Maka snuggled into his side as they walked. A pale hand brushed her pigtails.
"I need coffee."
Deathbucks it was.
They sat outside, below the promenade, right at the entrance. Both had mocha frappacinos, as it was unanimously agreed that iced, flavored coffee loaded with caffeine was the best for committing carb-i-cide, or whatever unhealthy crap that was in coffee. Maka snuggled close to him, and he smiled again.
"I think you could give it more of a chance." She played with his soft hair, watching as his eyes closed as her fingertips brushed his eyelids,
"It could do you good."
"I don't think so, Ma-chan." He picked up his coffee and took a drag, "But I'd do anything for you, darling, so if you insist . . ."
"Your father is well-intentioned."
"I know."
"I love you."
"I love you, too, Dear-heart." He pulled her close. He was constantly doting on her. This gift, that endearment. She meant the world to him, and Kid figured it was his right to spoil his woman, anyhow. He closed his eyes, and tried his best to relax. He shivered. The memories, the memories. They came at the worst times. He tried to block out his own
(screams.)
He suffered, and buried his face in her hair. Maka stroked his soft hair. Sp pretty. So broken. She would just let him ride it out. She always did. His voice permeated the silence, soft against her ears, with the whoosh of his breath.
"Sometimes,
(I weep. I scream. I struggle. I pray. I hope.)
I hate myself. It-it's . . ." Suddenly, he drew away from her. She watched anxiously as he retched. Passerby stared. Maka glared at them. She hated it when people had to stop and gawk at someone who was so obviously distressed. He came back, paler than normal and clammy. He sat down shakily, and after wiping off his mouth and pulling out a mint, pulled her close.
"I can't do it. I'll always be . . ." He released her, turning her in his lap so she faced him, "I feel horrible, disgusting." His gaze dropped to his hands, examining the lines in his palms, probably, "I'm young. I'm only fifteen, and perfectly healthy, physically. I have the body of a god." He swallowed, and his eyes filmed with tears, "When you're r-r-raped, your body just responds." He shuddered, and Maka reached up and squeezed his shoulders, "You orgasm, and-and-it ends up feeling good, and . . ." He pressed a hand to his mouth. Maka waited for him to throw up the rest of his coffee. She pulled him close, this time.
"I love you. You can't help what your body does. And I know it crawls under your skin, and it-it's horrible, but the
(struggle)
won't stop until you face it." She rocked him, "It's gonna be okay. I promise."
She whispered it.
He calmed.
"I love you."
"I love you too, Kiddo."
(I weep. I scream. I struggle. I pray. I hope.)
She kissed him sweetly. He tasted like acid. He popped in another mint, and apologized. Maka didn't have a problem with it.
They would
(hope.)
(I weep. I scream. I struggle. I pray. I hope.)
They would
(pray.)
But still. Maka worried. His lack of progress and the spiritual degeneration she could see was horribly worrisome. His soul was becoming weaker, and she worried for his mental health. The insanity. It was creeping. If they weren't careful, it would get him. In some dark, twisted, perverse way, his memories could become his
(cocaine.)
Haven't read the first installment?
Confessions of the Mad
Summary: Sometimes, one is a victim of circumstance. Other times, one cannot help but give into the chaos within. But what is human? An anthology of the thoughts, reflections, motives, and conflicts of Crona Gorgon. Told in first person. Drabble series. No pairing
Rated: Teen - violence, some swearing, angsts
Genre: General/Hurt/Comfort
Chapters: 2 (more to come)
Addicted
Summary: Based on the song "Addicted" by Kelly Clarkson. Maka finds the young shinigami fascinating and riveting, but will she allow the darkness in him to consume her? How will she cope with the damage that is left of Death the Kid? Drabble series. Dark KidxMaka.
Rated: Teen - concepts of rape/sexual assault, violence, language
Genre: Romance/Angst
Chapters: 3 (more to come)
Confessions of the Mad
Chapter 2: Melody
Post-Christmas arc. During trail-run arc, part 1. Crona's thoughts while touring Shibusen with Maka.
She watches me as we walk. I'm shy, and attempt to hide as she guides me down yet another hall. Her smile is brilliantly radiant. It blinds me, and warms me. It hugs me. She giggles as I stick myself to the wall, determined not to turn the corner. There's too many people. She pauses, and looks back at me. Her huge apple-green eyes are soft and beautiful, and I can see velvet auroras stir inside them as she holds out a hand.
"Crona! C'mon, don't be scared." And she smiles again. I think her laughter sounds like sunshine. I cautiously allow her to take my hand, and she smiles at me as we round the corner. Her palm is warm and rough, and she squeezes me fingers slightly before releasing them. I look about myself carefully, and startle when I hear a shout.
"Maka! What's up?" I watch as she turns, and she smiles and waves high over her head.
"Kim! Jackie!! I'm just showing Crona-chan around school."
Two girls walked up. One has short pink hair, a lot like me, and piercing bright-green eyes. The other girl is beautiful, with long, dark shiny hair and slanted black eyes. I smile and wave awkwardly. I squeak as the girl with pink hair leans in, "Are you that demon sword?" Maka pushes the girl back, and her eyes are stern.
"Don't scare Crona, she's timid. And be nice, Kim."
Kim shrugs, "Whatever. Well, have fun Crona. Bye!" She waved, and I watch as they continue down the hall. A sunny giggle next to me catches my attention, and I smile softly as Maka laughs.
"C'mon, I want to show you the balcony!"
"Wh-what's that?"
"You'll see. C'mon!"
Her warm, gentle hand wraps around my wrist, and she softly pulls me along. This was the girl who had reached me. I sat alone for such a long time, in my lonely circle drawn in the desert sand. My shadow questioned me. Berated me. I always passed. All I remember is blinding, hot yellow. It yawned and stretched at me, and the color laughed at me, freakish and vast. The yellow was topped by the blinding blue of the hot, electric sky. There was nothing but the endless sound of cicadas, and the scratch of my stick through the grains of sand as I counted my passes. The blinding, terrible-and-soupy yellow falling against the electric tension of that sweating blue sky. The obnoxious colors laughed at me, mocked me, and I retreated to that horribly colorful haven every time I couldn't deal with things.
She is soft, cool, green and ashy, wintery yellow-blonde; soft pastel colors and bright, vibrant red. She filled up my empty stage with her melody. It's like she handed me something tangible, when it used to simply slip through my fingers. I can touch it, caress it, feel it. The song resonates with every step she takes as we walk down the hall, the pounded keys on a piano as the melody strikes its godly, beautiful chords. I'm here, Crona. I won't leave you. I won't leave you. I'm here. Take my hand. Let's go up to the balcony, Crona-chan.
It's an area on Shibusen's roof. The cobbled stone clicks beneath my shoes as we approach the edge. Marie-sensei is there. I immediately scramble to the wall, and hunch over. I hide. Heights frighten me. I don't know how to deal with heights.
"Crona! Come and lift you head." Sunshine smile looks me in the face. She giggles. I slowly raise my head, and allow my eyes to peek over the edge. I gasp. The view is incredible, and I can see so much of Death City from here. Colorful, twisted buildings are spread out below me, and I can see for the first time a good portion of the historical Death City that everyone always talks about. A breeze tugs at our hair and clothing. Nevada is breathing, again.
I think I'll stay here for a while.
I'll keep listening to her melody.
It's a good one.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Addicted
Chapter 2: Nicotine
It's like you're a leech.
Sucking the life
from me.
It's like I can't breathe.
Without you
inside of me.
And I know
I let you
have all the power.
And I realize
I'm never gonna
quit you over time.
Maka shuffled her feet nervously as she stared at herself in the mirror. She bit her lip and turned to the side, inspecting how far her bust protruded from her body. Damn. She hoped Kid wouldn't be
(disappointed.)
The bodice of the red dress hugged her slender form easily. The skirt flared from her hips, and ended in red crinoline ruffles, under which white ruffles were layered. She wore a white lace scarf around her neck, and red evening gloves. This would be her first real date with the shinigami. She hoped he wouldn't be too
(subdued.)
He had changed so much.
She bit her lip and turned so her back was to the mirror, and stared over her shoulder, so her eyes could trace over the corset back, laced up with white ribbon, and tied off in a large, flourishing bow at her waist. He was taking her to a fancy, expensive restaurant. Of course, the Death family was a family of immortals-money was
(trivial)
to them. She fingered her dark-blonde hair, which fell down her back, all the way to her shoulder blades. She had just pulled it back into a half-ponytail, and tied a simple red ribbon in her hair. A knock on the door made her jump.
"Kid is here." Soul called.
Maka shakily opened her bedroom door, and stepped out, her patented red leather shoes clicking on the tile of her bedroom floor. Soul's eyes widened when he saw Maka, "Oi, Kid! Where do you get such pretty girls, and can I have one?" Maka smiled gently at her weapon's compliment, but it quickly disappeared as she absorbed the baritone
(sardonic?)
chuckle issuing from the doorway. She slowly rounded the corner and came within Kid's line of sight, staring demurely at the floor. She heard a soft gasp, and then silence. She looked up, huge green doe-eyes meeting slanted,
(darkenedby THATbut THAT’Snevertalkedabout)
exotic, molten-gold eyes. Kid was smiling softly, his head tilted to the side, "You look gorgeous."
Maka felt her face heat up, "Th-thank you."
"You could be the goddess of love."
Maka's face managed to turn twice as red, "Um . . . thanks . . ." She was sure her skin now matched her dress. Well, at least it didn't clash with the white. She heard him shift on his feet, and her eyes flickered up to his. He had taken on that stance, something about it
(ohthereitis THATit’snever talkedabout)
was defensive, yet perfectly normal. He held out a hand to her, "Shall we go?" Maka nodded, and walked forward, and took his hand. His posture relaxed, and Maka released a breath she didn't know she was holding. He led her out to the car, a sleek black Mercedes. He opened the passenger door for her, like a true gentleman, yet his eyes were not the clear
(ohthereitisthereitis THAT itisTHAT butTHAT isnevertalkedabout)
gold they used to be. Maka smiled softly at him, and slid in, gathering her skirt inside before Kid shut the door. She leaned back against the seat and pulled on her seatbelt as he settled in on the other side. She watched him as he paused, staring at the keys in his lap. Maka studied him curiously, wondering what was wrong. Finally, he spoke, "Maka. You don't think less of me because of what happened to me, right? You don't think the fact that
(ohthereritisTHAT isbeingspokenof nononodon't wannaspeakofTHAT)
I'm no longer a virgin is . . . bad, right?" He said it with much difficulty. Maka sighed.
"Oh, Kid. What Noah did to you was . . . he was messed up. People like him don't-they don't understand things like love and-" Maka's voice cut off, as she struggled with what to say. Kid's face was pained; obviously, he was having a very hard time with this. She watched him swallow, and he started the car. It was awkwardly silent for the entire drive. Maka didn't know quite what to say. He was obviously having a very hard time with this. But the fact that
(becuasesomehow thesilenceisworsethan hisheartscreamingatyou)
he shut down, every time it seemed to cross his mind. It was always there, on his mind, and it violated the way he was. His thoughts, his words, his actions-it clung to him like a disease. It was like an invisible parasite that Maka could see; constantly clinging and sucking.
They finally arrived to the restaurant, and Maka breathed with relief as Kid smiled across to her as he shut off the car. He got out, and walked around to open the door for her. Maka beamed up at him, and took his offered hand. She squeezed his fingers slightly, warm through her thin gloves. He squeezed back. He waited patiently for the man beside them to get out. Next thing Maka knew, her hand was being crushed, and Kid's breathing
(youcanhearhim youcanhearhimohgod youcanhearhimstillscreaming)
had become shallow. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated in fear. Maka looked to the man getting out, and saw that he was a young man, wearing a plaid hat, and had light brown hair and brown eyes. He looked like him. Maka squeezed Kid's hand, "It's not him. It's not. You're safe."
Kid nodded stiffly, obviously still terrorized out of his wits, and only relaxed when the man had left to go into the restaurant. Maka watched as he collapsed back against the car, and shoved his hands into his face. He was shaking. Maka reached out a tentative hand and touched his arm. He squeaked and jerked away, "D-don't!"
Maka withdrew her hand. It was like watching something beautiful slowly die. She wasn't quite sure what to do or say. Eventually, the shaking subsided, and he slowly looked up. His cheeks were wet, and his eyes looked tired. He wiped at his cheeks stubbornly, and nodded firmly to Maka, "I'm okay." But his eyes were so dark, dark, dark, and sad and fathomed and so, so lost. Maka didn't want to know
(hiseyes hiseyes theyneverstophurting henevereverstopshurting)
what horrors he had just relived. It made her feel scared and terrified and small and helpless, and Maka just simply didn't know what to do with that. Scared and terrified and small and helpless were never explained in the many textbooks Shibusen required meisters and weapons to read. She followed the young shinigami into the restaurant, watching his tensed back carefully. They were quickly seated, thanks to Kid's status as a young Death Prince, and Maka began looking over her menu. Or trying. His eyes were still over-bright and strained, and his body would not fully relax as he remained on tenterhooks. He looked like a smoker trying to get over their addiction to
(nicotine.)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 3: Cocaine
It's like I can't breathe!
It's like I can't see anything!
Nothing but you!
I'm addicted to you!
It's like I can't think.
Without you
interrupting me.
In my thoughts,
in my dreams,
you've taken over me.
It's like I'm not me. . .
It's like I'm not me
She sat curled in his lap, his arms tight around her. His cheek was pressed against her hair, and his fingers pressed into her ribs. Her legs were draped over his. Dark gold eyes glowered at the counselor. Maka listened to his breathing, the soft in, out, in, out, as the counselor repeated the question.
"And how do you feel about that?"
"You don't want to know." A dark tone hinted his voice.
"I think I do."
"You don't." Eyes glazed over, sunshine turning dull, as memories returned
(I weep. I scream. I struggle. I pray. I hope.)
unbidden to his head. Maka can watch it behind his eyes, but she doesn't want to see. He shifts, the long, well-muscled body pressing into hers. Kid's cheek rubs over her fine hair. He had insisted that he hold her. He said it helped. Maka agreed. The counselor was a short, balding man. His grayish-brown hair was thin at the top, and he had a cold. His nose was huge and red. It glared at Maka. He sniffed.
"Kid-sama, if we don't talk about this, then you won't get anywhere. Rape is a serious-"
"It won't do anything." His arms tightened around the girl. She closed huge, sad velvet green eyes, and listened to the lilt of his voice. His fingers were tracing her ribs, now, through her thin blouse. Maka pressed her lips to his neck. He pulled her ever-closer. For everytime she would
(weep)
for him, sucking in the air and breathing it out, something would chink at her heart. He made no progress, he did not move forward, he stayed where he was. It had been three months since his return. Maka's edges were beginning to crack. He still nightmared, and most nights, Maka spent the night at Gallows. Liz insisted and Soul begrudged it. Patti, as always, was optimistic.
"I really would like to end this session, now." Kid's fingers were almost painful around her ribs. His voice
(I weep. I scream. I struggle. I pray. I hope.)
was dead. Maka felt her heart sink at the sound. Mostly, these days, he resigned himself to dogged obligation. Don't forget your misery . . . It clung to him, as though assigned. Maka was the only one who managed to make him smile, these days, as the insanity and memories and oh-he-was-raped-he-was-he-was-don't-cry-now-don't crept up and began to weigh on him. It weighed on her, too, but she would endure it. She loved him. It was whispered to him, one night after he'd woken from his usual nightmares.
"Alright, then. If that's what you want . . . I hope you have been taking your medication."
Kid simply scowled. An antidepressant that was potent enough to surpass his supernatural metabolism had been found. He didn't take it.
"Yes. I have." The body under hers moved, and Maka slowly, lazily, unfolded herself from his lap. She stood, and held out a hand for him. He smiled up at her, a small, soft sweet gift saved just for her, and took it.
"Fucking counselor." It was muttered as soon as they were out of earshot, "I don't know what progress Chichiue thinks I'll make, seeing anyone . . ."
Maka was silent and let him rant. It was always like this. This was the fifth one they'd seen, and thus far, he'd turned them all down. But, Kid had always respected and listened to his father. He squeezed her hand, and kissed her cheek, smiling again. It was a relief to see him smile at her. Maka snuggled into his side as they walked. A pale hand brushed her pigtails.
"I need coffee."
Deathbucks it was.
They sat outside, below the promenade, right at the entrance. Both had mocha frappacinos, as it was unanimously agreed that iced, flavored coffee loaded with caffeine was the best for committing carb-i-cide, or whatever unhealthy crap that was in coffee. Maka snuggled close to him, and he smiled again.
"I think you could give it more of a chance." She played with his soft hair, watching as his eyes closed as her fingertips brushed his eyelids,
"It could do you good."
"I don't think so, Ma-chan." He picked up his coffee and took a drag, "But I'd do anything for you, darling, so if you insist . . ."
"Your father is well-intentioned."
"I know."
"I love you."
"I love you, too, Dear-heart." He pulled her close. He was constantly doting on her. This gift, that endearment. She meant the world to him, and Kid figured it was his right to spoil his woman, anyhow. He closed his eyes, and tried his best to relax. He shivered. The memories, the memories. They came at the worst times. He tried to block out his own
(screams.)
He suffered, and buried his face in her hair. Maka stroked his soft hair. Sp pretty. So broken. She would just let him ride it out. She always did. His voice permeated the silence, soft against her ears, with the whoosh of his breath.
"Sometimes,
(I weep. I scream. I struggle. I pray. I hope.)
I hate myself. It-it's . . ." Suddenly, he drew away from her. She watched anxiously as he retched. Passerby stared. Maka glared at them. She hated it when people had to stop and gawk at someone who was so obviously distressed. He came back, paler than normal and clammy. He sat down shakily, and after wiping off his mouth and pulling out a mint, pulled her close.
"I can't do it. I'll always be . . ." He released her, turning her in his lap so she faced him, "I feel horrible, disgusting." His gaze dropped to his hands, examining the lines in his palms, probably, "I'm young. I'm only fifteen, and perfectly healthy, physically. I have the body of a god." He swallowed, and his eyes filmed with tears, "When you're r-r-raped, your body just responds." He shuddered, and Maka reached up and squeezed his shoulders, "You orgasm, and-and-it ends up feeling good, and . . ." He pressed a hand to his mouth. Maka waited for him to throw up the rest of his coffee. She pulled him close, this time.
"I love you. You can't help what your body does. And I know it crawls under your skin, and it-it's horrible, but the
(struggle)
won't stop until you face it." She rocked him, "It's gonna be okay. I promise."
She whispered it.
He calmed.
"I love you."
"I love you too, Kiddo."
(I weep. I scream. I struggle. I pray. I hope.)
She kissed him sweetly. He tasted like acid. He popped in another mint, and apologized. Maka didn't have a problem with it.
They would
(hope.)
(I weep. I scream. I struggle. I pray. I hope.)
They would
(pray.)
But still. Maka worried. His lack of progress and the spiritual degeneration she could see was horribly worrisome. His soul was becoming weaker, and she worried for his mental health. The insanity. It was creeping. If they weren't careful, it would get him. In some dark, twisted, perverse way, his memories could become his
(cocaine.)