Someone Else's Blood
Title: Someone Else's Blood
Fandom: Baccano
Words: 465
Rating: R
Character: Lua Klein
Prompt: 'Blood'
Warnings: Blood, mentions of killing, some explicit descriptions of such.
Summary: Lua learnt how to wash blood out of clothes when she was young.
Lua had learned how to clean blood out of clothing from her mother’s maid at the age of twelve. A horrid nosebleed had meant that the front of Lua’s eggshell white dress had been smeared in that metallic-scented red. You needed to soak the dirtied clothes through with cold water, before washing them in the water that was boiled especially for it. This wasn’t incredibly difficult as cold water came as it was.
Lua had stared at the blood splatter on the pale cotton. It was hers, her blood. Something most vital to her existence had made such a beautiful contrast; she almost didn’t want to wash it off. She almost wanted to hang it up in the room she shared with her sister. But dresses such as hers were hard to come by, and the woman had wanted her to take it off to be cleaned as soon as possible.
Instead of leaving, Lua, in her underthings, had sat and watched as the submerged blood began to float away from the dress in a snaking cloud. Afterwards, the fragile white of the dress had been stained just with a slight ring of pink. Lua couldn’t decide whether it was less or more beautiful than the thick red. Maybe just as much. The red spoke proudly of her splattered existence, whereas the pink was a subtle whisper to those who knew and deserved to know. Perhaps just the one person who deserved to know. Twelve year old Lua had no-one in mind for that particular place, though.
Later, at the age of twenty-two, Lua watched somebody else’s blood coil away from a white three-piece suit. It was testament to somebody else’s death at his hands; a sample of his most loved pastime that wasn’t of her. Not her heart ruptured in a chest, somewhere, probably beneath broken ribs and between slashed lungs. Not her guts wrenched and hanging from the open hollow of a previously smooth stomach. Not her limbs twisted and bent like tree branches or her eyes clouded, white and rolled back…
Lua consoled herself with the knowledge that the blood of the stranger was probably spilled in a fit of exuberance and love of just watching the blood spill. He took pleasure and care in every kill, she knew, but he wouldn’t ever plan a death as carefully as he would hers. He loved each and every death he caused, yes, but hers would be the last. And the last was always the best.
Perhaps some aproned woman would try to get the blood from her dress and his suit. They would have brand new clothes, particularly for the occasion. Maybe he’d have a pristine new suit just for her blood. The thought makes that same blood warm in Lua’s veins.
Fandom: Baccano
Words: 465
Rating: R
Character: Lua Klein
Prompt: 'Blood'
Warnings: Blood, mentions of killing, some explicit descriptions of such.
Summary: Lua learnt how to wash blood out of clothes when she was young.
Lua had learned how to clean blood out of clothing from her mother’s maid at the age of twelve. A horrid nosebleed had meant that the front of Lua’s eggshell white dress had been smeared in that metallic-scented red. You needed to soak the dirtied clothes through with cold water, before washing them in the water that was boiled especially for it. This wasn’t incredibly difficult as cold water came as it was.
Lua had stared at the blood splatter on the pale cotton. It was hers, her blood. Something most vital to her existence had made such a beautiful contrast; she almost didn’t want to wash it off. She almost wanted to hang it up in the room she shared with her sister. But dresses such as hers were hard to come by, and the woman had wanted her to take it off to be cleaned as soon as possible.
Instead of leaving, Lua, in her underthings, had sat and watched as the submerged blood began to float away from the dress in a snaking cloud. Afterwards, the fragile white of the dress had been stained just with a slight ring of pink. Lua couldn’t decide whether it was less or more beautiful than the thick red. Maybe just as much. The red spoke proudly of her splattered existence, whereas the pink was a subtle whisper to those who knew and deserved to know. Perhaps just the one person who deserved to know. Twelve year old Lua had no-one in mind for that particular place, though.
Later, at the age of twenty-two, Lua watched somebody else’s blood coil away from a white three-piece suit. It was testament to somebody else’s death at his hands; a sample of his most loved pastime that wasn’t of her. Not her heart ruptured in a chest, somewhere, probably beneath broken ribs and between slashed lungs. Not her guts wrenched and hanging from the open hollow of a previously smooth stomach. Not her limbs twisted and bent like tree branches or her eyes clouded, white and rolled back…
Lua consoled herself with the knowledge that the blood of the stranger was probably spilled in a fit of exuberance and love of just watching the blood spill. He took pleasure and care in every kill, she knew, but he wouldn’t ever plan a death as carefully as he would hers. He loved each and every death he caused, yes, but hers would be the last. And the last was always the best.
Perhaps some aproned woman would try to get the blood from her dress and his suit. They would have brand new clothes, particularly for the occasion. Maybe he’d have a pristine new suit just for her blood. The thought makes that same blood warm in Lua’s veins.