Crimson Silhouette: #021 - Cage
Title: Alumina
Author: lilhobbit
Fandom: Crimson Silhouette (original)
Characters: Scotty, Bonnie, Arisu
Prompt: #021: Cage
Word Count: 1671
Rating: PG-13
Summary: So is he really the weaker one: the tin paper man against the lioness?
Warnings: language
Disclaimer: © Copyright lilhobbit. All rights reserved. Distribution of any kind is prohibited without the written consent of lilhobbit.
He can’t go on like this. This descent, this agony and shitty exterior - they’re all fucked up and he doesn’t want them. But he has them anyway, cannot discard them no matter how much bloodletting he’s done, or how much powder he’s taken. Even the water is evil, brings no release. He fucking hates it, hates being the inferior one no one cares about except as “her brother”.
She’s gorgeous; she knows how to talk to people. She can do anything, go anywhere. She’s got the stones, the looks and the moves. What’s he compared to that? He’s her fucking side-kick, never good enough to run for the 1st league. Even she’s blind to him, ignores him till she feels nostalgic all of the sudden and does some fucked up sibling thing from their past, because they’re inseparable.
He hates when she fails pick up his mood and goes on joking forever about something that he couldn’t care two fucks about. He looks back her coldly then; smiles, laughs but inside he’s crackling, feeling how the blood pushes past his stone hard skin and erupts into a fountain of rich crimson. No one else sees this B-movie death scene but him and it annoys him, reminds him further on how he’s alone. At least in those old samurai flicks they’re still capable of swinging one more time and cutting their enemy’s head off with a smooth move whereas his hands are paralyzed; he can’t just pull his gun and shoot her dead bang.
- Because she’s his sister. Even if the word, the bond, means nothing to her anymore it still has a meaning to him. He wouldn’t cut off and eat her leg to survive a blizzard, because her pain would undoubtedly overwhelm his senses and make him into the fucking offering instead.
It’s degrading how much he cares for a bitch that seems to have forgotten his existence as her only equal. Fuck those childhood promises and blood packs. Hell, fuck their whole earth shattering history together. It isn’t like being found together as infants in the same pool of blood means they’d even be related or anything. Just blind fucking luck they happened to bunk in the same puddle!
So is he really the weaker one: the tin paper man against the lioness? Maybe, why’d God give both twins such strong passion and emotions when they’re clearly not good for the mental health? Now he isn’t all that much about religion but having to listen to Seymour preach hellfire and sin a few times makes a man think it’d be nicer if all the demons in this world had someone immortal to tussle with rather than him.
He realizes he isn’t even listening to her anymore; just watching her laugh spiritedly as she knocks out another glass of strong brown water down her throat. The smoke engulfs her, makes her soft and beautiful despite her grinding words and behavior. And he knows she’s soft, smooth unlike the usual type around here. She’s just always saving herself for the brave and daring. She isn’t even soft to him anymore, just smacks him around, gives orders and never bothers to apologize for treating him that way. Not that he’d do much with an apology, just that the image stays strong, she doesn’t compromise.
She’s wearing a brown sleeveless shirt with a nice deep v-neckline. The neckline is surrounded by ruffles - very unlike her. He wonders who she beat up for that shirt and what she’s aiming at with wearing that style. Even the shiny hair is open and curled instead of on that tight ponytail she always keeps it on.
She doesn’t smoke, hates it when he does and yet now she doesn’t even glance at him when he lights a cigarette behind the protective barrier of his hands. He knows because he’s watching. She doesn’t even flinch, ignores him completely to smile to some stranger that’s just joined their table for the drinking game. The guy shakes hands around; he doesn’t give his, just looks up, nods and sinks back into his exhausting little world. He wishes he could water her with gasoline and light the match there at least but the image never forms, never becomes complete. He cannot image her charred body or her screaming face. Pathetic.
As a kid his psych evaluation said he spent too many hours pondering morbid mischief to be entirely mentally balanced. Now he thinks it’s more worrying he can’t pierce her back with a few hooks and lift her to hang in the freezer like fucking pork chop after he’s been killing people in his head since he was seven. The dark images to don’t apply to her; if she bleeds, he bleeds with her.
So how can he hurt her? How can he make her see he’s still here, holding onto their old way like nothing’s happened in between? She needs a wake up call; he has to give it to her before he really fucks himself up.
The fire burns his fingers when the cigarette reaches its end and he puts it out without even wincing. It tickles a little, leaves an itch and makes him wanna sink his fingers in his mouth, to suck them clean. He avoids drawing attention to his mouth though, seeing as it tends to draw attention to his face and that’s when people pretend they noticed his tattoo for the first time. They start talking, gossip silently with little whispers and wonder what kind of a man marks himself that way?
To him it makes no difference but the only breath of attention he’s had for months was when he got the tattoo and she realized how people began talking about it. So yeah, he was seeking any attention from her, even negative. Not that he marked himself for that purpose alone. No, the mark itself held special value to him whereas other people only saw it dangerous and foolish to brand oneself with such an omen if one was not guilty of its charge. The demon marks were fever nowadays but increasing as were the devils among men. They no longer looked at him for long and satisfied he could only congratulate himself on a fine pick.
He gets up from the table, passes a few people with his gaze strictly on the other end of the bar and his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t stop to tell her where he's going or if he's coming back right away and she doesn’t watch him leave with any greater interest. He’s had enough of her court, enough of being the shameful being who's there only because of the grace of his sister. Perhaps they no longer belong together, perhaps there really would be nothing to discuss even if she did come to see him again.
He sits on a bar stool, makes an order for absinthe so he can wash the dirt taste of her from his mouth. His head aches, the world comes down as waves and he wishes he’d know more sober nights. He doesn’t, they’re always on the move, always together. When he tried to escape the pulse of underground back into the society they simply put him back on the pill. Do some water floating, it helps relax - that was their fucking advice. Maybe it’s better to be wasted than take all of this on sober.
The smoke is irritating his eyes, making them water. Tears linger in his eyelashes. Who the fuck was he kidding? He's gonna stay right here, and wait until they call for him. It doesn’t usually take days, or even hours. He strokes his unshaved jaw with his hand. It doesn’t feel nice.
And then on the other end of the long counter he spots a sight he’s not seen before. She’s got blue hair with white stripes, pantyhose with fat pink and black stripes. Her eyes have too much make up, her hair looks false and yet he manages not to think of his sister while he’s looking at her. This one is no angel; she’s here to find company, seeking to forget some edge in her life that causes her pain.
A bad woman, like it says on his cheek. He gets up and walks to her. “How much?” he asks, one elbow leaning against the counter as if he’s just casually dropping by. He’s voice doesn’t have a hint of mellowness in it, his eyes are piercing and the mark on his cheek proves him unworthy.
She smiles at him though, “Save your money.” She doesn’t sound amused or flirting either - just harsh.
He doesn’t wanna be here another minute and he’d be with someone that doesn’t have the power to crush him with so little. He wants to achieve that feel of control again: the capacity to mutilate her in his head when she does something that hurts him. He imagines blood is running down from her eye corners and sees it vividly. While he’s contemplating her death, she puts her hand on his cheek as if only now noticing the demon mark there. She looks surprised but the gesture is fake; she puts effort in it, immediately intriguing him.
It seems he forgot to flinch when she touched his bare skin. He usually does that when someone other than his sister gets that close. She gets up, straightens her short skirt a bit and offers him her hand. He takes it without thinking, makes a raw initiative and pulls her after him through the crowd. He’s eager to go outside, get away from her reach, from the barrier she creates, because while he’s inside he’s a prisoner to her and can never feel anything besides the abandonment she subjects him to.
He doesn’t see her glance after him when he takes off with the strange girl. Worry flashes in her eyes, she wants to get up and follow him but she’s held down.
- fin