[Fic] Tearing You Asunder
NOTE. THIS FIC CONTAINS REFERENCES TO DUBIOUS CONSENT AND/OR RAPE. PLEASE BE ADVISED WHEN READING.
She was sedated and restrained, the newly-grown wings laying nearly across her back. They were, suitably enough, enlarged crow wings--black, or a dark blue perhaps. Cain had just scribbled 'black' into his notes--notes that he was going to have to recopy later. They were practically illegible at this stage, but it had been a long day and the dark blood stains on the side of the paper weren't going anywhere.
Cain exhaled, sitting across from where Lydia lay. The room smelled so strongly of bleach it made him almost nauseous, though nowhere near as nauseous as he had felt upon arriving at the gory scene mere hours ago.
He had missed it. He couldn't believe, after all these months, YEARS of work, he had missed Lydia getting her wings. He had missed that first moment of her Calling, hadn't been there for her when the first waves of violent urges started. Effectively, he had failed her. He had failed her--the pool of white blood told him that much.
Cain sighed heavily. He didn't understand how they had missed it. They had been counting down the days. They had her birthday, the date given to them by the orphanage. It must have been off by a week or so, the wrong number scribbled into the wrong box, or the wrong number in the right box. It was off and the actual transformation itself must have happened in the early hours of the morning, when security was light and no one was there to hold her hand through the pain of her insides shifting, of the wings growing from her back. Cain could remember the pain of getting his own wings--and Lydia had suffered that by herself.
Cain took a long swig of whatever alcohol he had found in the office fridge. It burned the back of his throat, tasting a bit too similar to the bleach-soaked air around him for his own liking. Tears blurred his eyes as he swallowed--a purely biological reaction. He certainly wasn't crying. There was no reason to cry, this was just another step in her growth, another notch under her belt. He knew it had been coming--they had all known. It was all natural, all a part of the process. He was just...
He was supposed to have been there. He was supposed to have held her hand as her body temperature rose and her wings appeared from her back. It was supposed to be his face she saw when she opened her eyes for the first time as a demon, as a Rak. There had been a plan for that moment, and it had fallen through, and there hadn't been time for a backup plan and it was all his fault. If he hadn't attended that gala, if he had stayed in the facility that night instead of going out to greet pretty women and drink expensive champagne, he would have been there, he would have seen. He would have been the first to find her, not the attendent he didn't even know worked at the facility. He hadn't known the poor kid's name until he had to look him up to fill out the accident report to be processed. It was Toby. Toby Reynolds. He was just barely twenty, and Cain would be sending his body home in a bag.
Cain had thrown open the doors to find Lydia's room awash in gray blood--a mix of pearly white angel blood and a little bit of dark black demon blood. It seemed Mr. Toby Reynolds was an archangel who knew a thing or two about defending himself against a Rakshasa. Part of Lydia's head had split open, blood dribbling onto the floor when he found her, playfully snapping Reynold's bones into little pieces. Cain would never forget the look in her eyes as she glared at him, almost defiantly, clearly high on the adrenaline from the kill--she was a bloodthirsty killer, and to his almost-horror and disappointment, she appeared to like it.
But it was okay now. A set-back, nothing more. Her head was stitched and bandaged; she was sedated and restrained and lying so still that Cain couldn't help but think of his sister. What was Lindsey doing right now? Did she still clip out the articles he wrote, just like she used to? Did she know what he was doing? He hadn't spoken to her in probably four years, an eternity, a lifetime. He remembered watching her skip, teh way she would twitch every now and then, the way he would reach out to her whenever she had nightmares...
Cain wobbled unsteadily to Lydia's side. He knew rationally that he was drunk, that really she should just go home and sleep it off and make plans for tomorrow, but he knelt next to the tiny girl instead, and reached out to move her bangs away from her face.
Her skin was hot. Of course it was, she was a demon, but it still surprised Cain--he had been so used to having her body temperature being that of a human that he almost drew back in pain and shock. Cain leaned into to hear her breathing, laying his head right next to hers to watch her chest rise and fall, his arms almost subconsciously around her, drawing himself up onto her cot. Metal springs creaked beneath him, shifting to accomadate the new weight. Under his touch, Lydia shivered, a tremble that seemed less than human. Cain stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, absorbing her heat until it seemed to consume him. He was almost buzzing, every nerve alive and yet dulled by her skin, by the alcohol, by failure and despair.
He was drunk, he could rationalize later, in the very private moments during which he chose to reflect on what happened next. Possibly he was beyond drunk--wasted, perhaps. He wasn't thinking about what he was doing, even as he was straddling her, fingers on the buttons of his stained dress pants. He didn't want it, despite the hungry kisses down her jawline and his hands desperate to touch every inch of her. It didn't mean anything, even as her eyes opened and he was inside her, holding her down until black bruises of his tight grip formed around her wrists. There was no sound except quiet moans of concentration that escaped his lips, and the squeals of the mattress springs that concealed her soft whimpers. When he was finished, he rolled over and gathered her up in his arms and whispered the wrong name over and over again into her ear: "Lindsey, Lindsey, Lindsey," crying into her hair until he fell asleep.
He awoke early the next morning--the same morning, he had no idea. He stumbled out of her cell with a pounding headache and a nauseous swimming in his stomach that wasn't entirely from the hangover. Lydia was still asleep, and after quickly changing into new clothes, Cain canceled all of his meetings for the day, recorded her vital signs and adjusted the levels of sedative to keep her asleep. His headache still gnawing at the back of his skull, he wandered back to his office, sat down in his chair and threw himself into a pile of paperwork, planning the next six months of treatment. He worked for nine hours straight, pouring over charts and order sheets, furiously scribbling in his lab book about procedure and timing. He wrote out a plan, scrapped it, wrote out another plan, pulled out four or five books and took nineteen pages of notes, comparing them to the notes he already had. His Calling was running him at this point, shoving information at him again and again, making him see the connections, giving him new ideas. He worked until he was practically dizzy and his head hurt so badly he could barely keep his eyes open. He closed his notes with a satisfied smile, running his hands over the ridges in the spines of his books before thrusting himself from his desk. Inky black clouded his vision--his blood sugar was probably low, and he was most likely dehydrated from drinking and crying and working. He closed his eyes again and felt his body sway back and forth before he steadied himself and headed towards Lydia's cell to do a final check-in before heading home.
He managed, perhaps subconsciously, to have left his office in the middle of a shift change so there was no one in the hallways when he left, which he was fine with. He'd already taken the liberty of ordering the security tape from yesterday; they'd been in a lock down which meant it was highly likely no one had been manning the cameras. Cain wanted to watch the footage of Lydia getting her wings, and if there was some unfortunate water damage that happened to the second half of the tape, well, he could deal with that.
He stopped at the cell door and just looked inside. Lydia was still asleep, just like he had planned. Cain smiled--a light smile, a comforted smile. She looked so peaceful laying there, just sleeping for once in her life--no tossing and turning, no mumbling or whispering. Looking at her, Cain couldn't tell that she was a demon, couldn't tell that she was a murderer. His hands curled into fists against the plastic windows and he pushed himself away, the smile spreading into an almost-triumphant grin.
He hadn't failed. They weren't done yet. Yes, she had her wings, but they had been expecting that. IT was just another stage of development. Nothing had changed, nothing at all. He had a plan and he was going to execute it and he was going to succeed.
They were going to succeed.
Muse: Cain McKay
Word count: 1627 words
She was sedated and restrained, the newly-grown wings laying nearly across her back. They were, suitably enough, enlarged crow wings--black, or a dark blue perhaps. Cain had just scribbled 'black' into his notes--notes that he was going to have to recopy later. They were practically illegible at this stage, but it had been a long day and the dark blood stains on the side of the paper weren't going anywhere.
Cain exhaled, sitting across from where Lydia lay. The room smelled so strongly of bleach it made him almost nauseous, though nowhere near as nauseous as he had felt upon arriving at the gory scene mere hours ago.
He had missed it. He couldn't believe, after all these months, YEARS of work, he had missed Lydia getting her wings. He had missed that first moment of her Calling, hadn't been there for her when the first waves of violent urges started. Effectively, he had failed her. He had failed her--the pool of white blood told him that much.
Cain sighed heavily. He didn't understand how they had missed it. They had been counting down the days. They had her birthday, the date given to them by the orphanage. It must have been off by a week or so, the wrong number scribbled into the wrong box, or the wrong number in the right box. It was off and the actual transformation itself must have happened in the early hours of the morning, when security was light and no one was there to hold her hand through the pain of her insides shifting, of the wings growing from her back. Cain could remember the pain of getting his own wings--and Lydia had suffered that by herself.
Cain took a long swig of whatever alcohol he had found in the office fridge. It burned the back of his throat, tasting a bit too similar to the bleach-soaked air around him for his own liking. Tears blurred his eyes as he swallowed--a purely biological reaction. He certainly wasn't crying. There was no reason to cry, this was just another step in her growth, another notch under her belt. He knew it had been coming--they had all known. It was all natural, all a part of the process. He was just...
He was supposed to have been there. He was supposed to have held her hand as her body temperature rose and her wings appeared from her back. It was supposed to be his face she saw when she opened her eyes for the first time as a demon, as a Rak. There had been a plan for that moment, and it had fallen through, and there hadn't been time for a backup plan and it was all his fault. If he hadn't attended that gala, if he had stayed in the facility that night instead of going out to greet pretty women and drink expensive champagne, he would have been there, he would have seen. He would have been the first to find her, not the attendent he didn't even know worked at the facility. He hadn't known the poor kid's name until he had to look him up to fill out the accident report to be processed. It was Toby. Toby Reynolds. He was just barely twenty, and Cain would be sending his body home in a bag.
Cain had thrown open the doors to find Lydia's room awash in gray blood--a mix of pearly white angel blood and a little bit of dark black demon blood. It seemed Mr. Toby Reynolds was an archangel who knew a thing or two about defending himself against a Rakshasa. Part of Lydia's head had split open, blood dribbling onto the floor when he found her, playfully snapping Reynold's bones into little pieces. Cain would never forget the look in her eyes as she glared at him, almost defiantly, clearly high on the adrenaline from the kill--she was a bloodthirsty killer, and to his almost-horror and disappointment, she appeared to like it.
But it was okay now. A set-back, nothing more. Her head was stitched and bandaged; she was sedated and restrained and lying so still that Cain couldn't help but think of his sister. What was Lindsey doing right now? Did she still clip out the articles he wrote, just like she used to? Did she know what he was doing? He hadn't spoken to her in probably four years, an eternity, a lifetime. He remembered watching her skip, teh way she would twitch every now and then, the way he would reach out to her whenever she had nightmares...
Cain wobbled unsteadily to Lydia's side. He knew rationally that he was drunk, that really she should just go home and sleep it off and make plans for tomorrow, but he knelt next to the tiny girl instead, and reached out to move her bangs away from her face.
Her skin was hot. Of course it was, she was a demon, but it still surprised Cain--he had been so used to having her body temperature being that of a human that he almost drew back in pain and shock. Cain leaned into to hear her breathing, laying his head right next to hers to watch her chest rise and fall, his arms almost subconsciously around her, drawing himself up onto her cot. Metal springs creaked beneath him, shifting to accomadate the new weight. Under his touch, Lydia shivered, a tremble that seemed less than human. Cain stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, absorbing her heat until it seemed to consume him. He was almost buzzing, every nerve alive and yet dulled by her skin, by the alcohol, by failure and despair.
He was drunk, he could rationalize later, in the very private moments during which he chose to reflect on what happened next. Possibly he was beyond drunk--wasted, perhaps. He wasn't thinking about what he was doing, even as he was straddling her, fingers on the buttons of his stained dress pants. He didn't want it, despite the hungry kisses down her jawline and his hands desperate to touch every inch of her. It didn't mean anything, even as her eyes opened and he was inside her, holding her down until black bruises of his tight grip formed around her wrists. There was no sound except quiet moans of concentration that escaped his lips, and the squeals of the mattress springs that concealed her soft whimpers. When he was finished, he rolled over and gathered her up in his arms and whispered the wrong name over and over again into her ear: "Lindsey, Lindsey, Lindsey," crying into her hair until he fell asleep.
He awoke early the next morning--the same morning, he had no idea. He stumbled out of her cell with a pounding headache and a nauseous swimming in his stomach that wasn't entirely from the hangover. Lydia was still asleep, and after quickly changing into new clothes, Cain canceled all of his meetings for the day, recorded her vital signs and adjusted the levels of sedative to keep her asleep. His headache still gnawing at the back of his skull, he wandered back to his office, sat down in his chair and threw himself into a pile of paperwork, planning the next six months of treatment. He worked for nine hours straight, pouring over charts and order sheets, furiously scribbling in his lab book about procedure and timing. He wrote out a plan, scrapped it, wrote out another plan, pulled out four or five books and took nineteen pages of notes, comparing them to the notes he already had. His Calling was running him at this point, shoving information at him again and again, making him see the connections, giving him new ideas. He worked until he was practically dizzy and his head hurt so badly he could barely keep his eyes open. He closed his notes with a satisfied smile, running his hands over the ridges in the spines of his books before thrusting himself from his desk. Inky black clouded his vision--his blood sugar was probably low, and he was most likely dehydrated from drinking and crying and working. He closed his eyes again and felt his body sway back and forth before he steadied himself and headed towards Lydia's cell to do a final check-in before heading home.
He managed, perhaps subconsciously, to have left his office in the middle of a shift change so there was no one in the hallways when he left, which he was fine with. He'd already taken the liberty of ordering the security tape from yesterday; they'd been in a lock down which meant it was highly likely no one had been manning the cameras. Cain wanted to watch the footage of Lydia getting her wings, and if there was some unfortunate water damage that happened to the second half of the tape, well, he could deal with that.
He stopped at the cell door and just looked inside. Lydia was still asleep, just like he had planned. Cain smiled--a light smile, a comforted smile. She looked so peaceful laying there, just sleeping for once in her life--no tossing and turning, no mumbling or whispering. Looking at her, Cain couldn't tell that she was a demon, couldn't tell that she was a murderer. His hands curled into fists against the plastic windows and he pushed himself away, the smile spreading into an almost-triumphant grin.
He hadn't failed. They weren't done yet. Yes, she had her wings, but they had been expecting that. IT was just another stage of development. Nothing had changed, nothing at all. He had a plan and he was going to execute it and he was going to succeed.
They were going to succeed.
Muse: Cain McKay
Word count: 1627 words