[Fic] despierto - cuatro
Title: despierto (cuatro)
Fandom: Crossroads
Characters: Yomohiro Tomoe, Fujioka Midori, Yomohiro Junichi, Yomohiro Hajime, "Akiyama Kou," and very vague mentions of Kunisaki Chie and Satoshi Kaede | Midori/Tomoe, Kou/Tomoe
Word Count: 2,947 (cuatro); 15,617 (total)
Rating: M
Warning/s: Please highlight to view the laundry list of trigger warnings. character death, graphic depictions of death and violence, graphic depictions of sex, subtextual incest, abuse, self-mutilation and suicidal tendencies
Summary: One week after she moves into her new house, Tomoe's father dies. Things start happening that she cannot explain. | tomoe and the truths that cannot be obscured
Disclaimer: "Kou" is Miles', Midori is Arah's, Chie is Momo's and Kaede is Kriselle's.
Notes: More in-depth author's notes at the end of the story.
uno. | dos. | tres. | cuatro. | cinco.
.cuatro.
Her phone rings.
She turns on her heel and bolts past the open doorway, traversing the expanse of the ground floor hall and pushing through the doors of her office to the entrance of the basement.
She doesn't remember answering her phone, but suddenly it is in her hand and her assistant is speaking into her ear as she dashes down the rickety spiral staircase, a soft warm light illuminating the room.
"Doctor Yomohiro?"
She grunts, making for the cabinet by the sink, kicking aside the old paint cans and wrenching the cabinet door open - a sweet smell perfusing the stale air of the basement.
She hesitates.
"You haven't been to the hospital in a week."
Her canister of tea is nestled in the space just behind the urn of her father's ashes.
"Doctor? Doctor?"
Her hands are trembling when she reaches out and there is a cold bead of perspiration that slides down her temple, dripping off her jaw. Her fingertips skim the plain surface of the urn, icy cold under her touch, and she draws her hands back. But she licks her lips and swallows past a lump in her throat, grabbing the urn by its rim and bringing it out.
The sweet smell is coming from inside.
Her breath stutters and she reaches in, pulling out a handful of dark brown material.
It is cocoa.
She drops the urn and it smashes against2 the floor, cocoa spraying out in thick clumps over the floor as she bends over the sink and retches.
"Doctor? Doctor?" The teeny tiny voice of her assistant.
She vomits a thick wad of green phlegm and coughs until the globules are flecked with spots of red, coughs until she tastes blood and not ashes, a long string of saliva dripping down her chin, her chest.
Her phone rings.
Somehow, her phone is in her hand and she is climbing up her staircase and there is only one thought in her mind which is she must get out of here.
"Doctor Yomohiro?" It's the teeny tiny voice of her assistant though she doesn't remember answering the call. She moves past the final step and turns, down the hallway to her room.
She pushes open the door and she is in her library, all the lights on, all the books in their proper places, all the books flipped upside down.
"You haven't been to the hospital in a week."
"What the hell do you want!" She's holding herself and she's crying and she's pressing her phone to her ear though she doesn't remember ever getting it at all.
"Doctor, doctor I am sick."
"Leave me alone- just-"
"Call the doctor very quick."
"No more, please-"
"Doctor, doctor, shall I die?"
"Enough-"
"Tell my mother do not cry."
She throws her phone across the floor and sinks down on her knees, her hands over her ears.
She remembers it now, something she thought was a dream.
It had been an early morning after Midori stayed over for the night, in the better days when he'd been less busy with his university work that he could afford to spend more time with her. She wakes up and reaches out, her joints loose and liquid, the sound of twittering birds outside promising a clear day. She grasps empty sheets - Midori out for his quick jog, perhaps - and shuts her eyes for a few more minutes of sleep.
She wakes from her catnap when the bed dips beside her - he's back then - and she feels the phantom touch of fingers slide up her calf, the sweep of a palm against her knee traveling the expanse of her inner thigh with the drag of nails across her skin. Her nightgown rustles up to her hips.
Midori, yearning for a traipse in the sheets. The man could be insatiable, really. They'd done more than enough last night and yet now he is pushing apart her legs, languid and almost lazy, and she feels him settling between her thighs, the whisper of his breath on her mound.
She sighs, pleasure stirring within her like a snake slowly uncoiling. With a lazy arch of her back, she blinks her eyes open, smiles,
-and it is the red-haired man grinning up at her.
She takes a room in a small run-down hotel two blocks away from the hospital.
The receptionist is a nervous, jittery young man who keeps on glancing at her as she checks in, a stricken expression pinching the freckles across his face. He gives her a keycard with a faded 1408, watching as she enters the elevator dressed in a mismatched orange shirt and a pair of baggy green pants - the first things she got from her closet - lugging a sports bag with whatever clothing she managed to grab on to.
The elevator creaks as it climbs up, sounding like a human groan of protest. She scratches at the cuticle of her thumb, nail over skin, peeling it back. The elevator pings at the fourteenth floor, the metal doors sliding open, and she steps into the hallway past a line of dusty wall lanterns that feebly light the path. The carpet is scuffed under her rubber shoes, muffling her tread as she steps past a corner to the end of the hall.
Room 1408 is sparsely furnished: a single bed pushed against the corner, a crooked bedside table that stands on misaligned legs, a soot-stained dresser that wobbles when she sets her bag on it, and a floor lamp which she had to tap to get it to light up. The adjacent bathroom isn't any better and there is a clump of hair in the drain of the tub.
She collapses on the bed, on top of the covers, and keeps the lights on when she sleeps.
In the dream her room is different somehow, more cramped and enclosed, the air heavier. She looks down and she's in her cactus pajamas, her favorite, the one that buttons all the way from collar to hem. In her arms is the one-eyed teddy bear and its head lolls back when she lifts it up.
Kou, she remembers now. Kou is its name.
There is a sharp cry, a child's cry. She jerks her head towards the far corner of her room and- there, yes, a crib, plain white and shiny with varnish, intricate hand-carved curlicues unfurling from the guardrail.
She clutches Kou to her chest and slides off the bed, the hem of her pajama pants falling above her ankles. The child is crying still, hiccuping sobs, and she tiptoes across her room, quiet quiet quiet, peering over the headboard, slow slow slow, knowing she expects it when she sees the baby nestled on the blue sheets, small enough to fit in the crook of her arm, small small small, red hair wild and messy eyes squinted in a furious howl as he kicks at a rubber ball that thumps against the side of the crib.
"Don't cry don't cry don't cry," she murmurs, approaching her baby brother, reaching out for the crib's edge, but the dream melts when her fingers touch the wood and suddenly she's grasping at the headboard of her bed back at her house, her new house in her new room with the same yellow paint the same red-orange bedsheets, knuckles turning white as she grips it with both hands, keening when her pants are yanked down her thighs.
"I hate you," a voice murmurs against her ear, running rough fingertips over the curve of her hips.
She arches her back and pushes against the touch, burning with a phantom arousal that spreads like wildfire across her skin.
"I loathe you," the voice says, tracing her slit.
She shifts on her knees, nudges against something - her teddy bear, Kou, its one eye staring up at her.
"I'll destroy you," and then he's pumping two fingers inside her, slick and wet, forcing another finger in to stretch her with a sharp bite of pain that ebbs to pleasure, curving his back over her spine like he's mounting her to bite the shell of her ear, and from her peripheral vision she can see wild red hair shaking as he thrusts in her until she's crying, sobbing out, pushing against the fingers to take them deeper within her
turning her head to the side and glancing behind her and it's the bedroom in her old house again, the too-small bed, the red-orange sheets, Midori naked and sitting on his heels, the pressure on her back disappearing, the baby crying crying crying as she turns around and lowers herself in front of Midori, palms on either side of his thighs, his cock jutting up tip beaded with pre-come which she licks with the flat of her tongue, swirling it around the head, taking his shaft in deep deep deep in her mouth, bobbing her head up-down up-down, feeling him jerk his hips and hearing him groan, flushed with desire when she looks up at him with his cock pressed to the back of her throat his lips parted tongue lolling out clutching at her hair and she smiles, smiles, sliding him out halfway and opening her mouth as wide as she can, her teeth glinting the baby crying Midori howling when she chomps down-
She wakes up sweaty, disturbed, aroused.
The lights are still on.
She sits up and watches as a red rubber ball rolls out from beneath the bed.
The sunlight shines through the moth-eaten curtains of the hotel dining room, a renovated hall with two long tables spread out at the center containing baskets of fruit and trays of half-burnt toast and greasy sausages. She picks at the fruits, fingers skittering on the too-ripe surface of an apple which she picks up and puts on her empty plate. She trudges to the end of the table, dragging her feet behind her, her left eyelid twitching.
She claps a hand over her eye, glancing away when the man across her shoots her a puzzled look. She takes one mug and places it on the table. She picks up a packet of ready-mix coffee and tears it with her teeth. She pours the granules into the mug. She takes the hot water thermos and clicks the lid open.
A shadow flits at the periphery of her vision. She jerks her head towards its direction, at the person sitting by one of the corner tables holding up a newspaper spread. The newspaper slowly inches down, all sound dimming to a rush that fills her ears as it reveals rust red hair - lower still - severe eyebrows - lower - dark eyes grim and somber sharp as flints-
"OH MY GOD GO TO HELL YOU BITCH!" She staggers back, the hot water thermos clattering to the floor, dropping it from where she had been pouring boiling water over the hand of the man across her.
She bolts for the elevator, bearing down on the orange 14 until the metal doors slide shut, pacing the floor like a caged animal while picking at her cuticles, scratch scratch, tearing at the nail with her teeth, scratch scratch, blood trickling down to the base of her finger.
The elevator pings and she runs out, slipping on the ground and hitting her hip against the corner, one knee slamming to the ground - a sharp starburst of pain she ignores as she claws at the carpet and sprints the remaining way to her room. She slams her keycard on the reader and shoves the door open and it isn't the hotel room anymore, no, it's the room back at her old house with the red-orange blankets and the crib at the far corner, the faint tinkling of a music box, Kou the teddy bear looking at her with its one remaining eye-
"Daddy's home!" yells someone from downstairs and she feels a strong shiver rack up her spine, an icy grip of fear that mingles with the sicksharpknifeedge arousal that flushes through her and-
she blinks and she's back in the hotel room, hot, sweaty, a sudden rap on her door making her jump - when did she close her door? - turning around and opening it to the frightened face of the receptionist, freckles standing out clearly against his pale skin.
"E-Excuse me? Is everything all right?" He mumbles.
When did she close her door? she thinks.
"T-The couple next door s-said they heard slamming l-like the room was being t-trashed-" He clamps his lips together.
She stares at him from beneath the fringe of her hair - "I don't know what you're talking about" - slamming the door on him and wheeling around to look at the mess of the room, the dresser upturned, the covers ripped off the bed, the lamp smashed, when did she close her door? she thinks, Tell me tell me tell me the answer, you may be a lover but you ain't no dancer.
She gnaws on her thumb. The skin breaks.
She stays at her office in the hospital.
It's easier here where it's busy, the PA system ringing with announcements, the sound of doors opening and closing, people milling about in the hallways. She sags against her chair and lets her cheek collapse on the polished surface of her desk, inconceivably tired, fighting to keep awake and move with the leaden weight of her body but sinking further and further and further.
It's a dream - she knows it is. She's back in the room of her new house except her teddy bear is lying at the center of the bed and a white, ornate crib is rocking near the window.
The image crackles with the snowy static of a broken television screen, and swims back to focus.
The teddy bear is sitting, staring at her with its one eye.
"Are you happy?"
Its mouth doesn't move but she knows the voice is coming from it, the teddy bear, her one-eyed teddy bear named Kou.
Her dream seems to reach the end of its reel because it stops, jumps, runs over a film with two mismatched ends because in place of the teddy bear is the red-haired man with red eyes.
"Your father is rotting in hell."
She squeezes her thighs together.
He smirks. "I'm going to win."
"Who are you?" She whispers, taking one step towards him.
His smirk widens, his lips forming a gash that splits across his pale face.
He opens his mouth-
"Doctor? Your patient is ready."
She lifts her head off the desk and looks at her assistant standing at the doorway of her office.
"Doctor?"
She sits up and rubs the sleep from her eyes.
"Yes?"
"The patient is ready. The operation."
She tilts her head.
"The mitral valve replacement surgery."
She hums a noncommittal noise.
"Doctor?"
She looks at her assistant.
"The patient is ready."
She hums, "Look out helter skelter."
"I'm sorry?" Her assistant blinks at her.
She shakes her head. Smiles.
"Nothing. I'll go get ready."
The operating room lights are bright and harsh, illuminating the patient lying sedated on top of a sterile steel table surrounded by tubes and wires. She takes a deep breath, just as she had always done before her surgeries, and places the tip of the scalpel on the patient's chest, sliding the blade down and cutting through skin, flesh, muscles, blood oozing from the gash.
A bead of sweat trickles down her forehead, her eye. She blinks and raises her arm to wipe it against her sleeve.
The heart monitor beeps steadily.
Beneath her hands, she feels the heart beating - the muscles pulsing to sustain life - and watches the rhythmic seize and pump seize and pump seize-and-pump. This is strength, control, the absolute omniscience of a god looking down, and she's back in her old bedroom lying on the bedsheets, her brother wailing somewhere in the distance but she keeps her eyes closed.
She shrugs her shoulder, one strap of the nightgown slipping down her upper arm, and it's so much easier now, a tender coax really, to glide her fingers down her chest and cup her breast with her palm, to knead her nipple into a hard nub that buzzes with an electric tingle when she pinches it with two fingers.
The heart beats beneath her hands, fluttering, her scalpel poised on top of it, the heart monitor beeping steadily like a staccato which punctuates the hiccuping sobs of her baby brother and-
The bed dips beside her and she turns towards it but doesn't yet open her eyes, feeling that heavy awareness of being watched once more, a steady pressure that makes her keen at the damp moisture between her legs.
-the heart opening up beneath her blade, blood pooling bright red and vibrant-
She jerks her panties down, so ardent that she foregoes it midway down her thighs, spreading her labia with one hand, with her other plunging two fingers deep, deeper, there - right inside her cunt. She moans - are you watching - riding her fingers close to her ecstasy, spreading herself - can you see this - adding a third finger to slice into her, close, so goddamn close-
-the heart monitor stutters into an irregular beeping rhythm, the sounds of people yelling receding into the background-
Her lashes flutter open and she looks up at the face of her father, his gray eyes dark and heated and sharp as flints as he stares down at her.
His hand settles on top of her thigh.
The heart monitor beeps one final, unchanging note.
previous. | next.
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/17058.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: Crossroads
Characters: Yomohiro Tomoe, Fujioka Midori, Yomohiro Junichi, Yomohiro Hajime, "Akiyama Kou," and very vague mentions of Kunisaki Chie and Satoshi Kaede | Midori/Tomoe, Kou/Tomoe
Word Count: 2,947 (cuatro); 15,617 (total)
Rating: M
Warning/s: Please highlight to view the laundry list of trigger warnings. character death, graphic depictions of death and violence, graphic depictions of sex, subtextual incest, abuse, self-mutilation and suicidal tendencies
Summary: One week after she moves into her new house, Tomoe's father dies. Things start happening that she cannot explain. | tomoe and the truths that cannot be obscured
Disclaimer: "Kou" is Miles', Midori is Arah's, Chie is Momo's and Kaede is Kriselle's.
Notes: More in-depth author's notes at the end of the story.
uno. | dos. | tres. | cuatro. | cinco.
.cuatro.
Her phone rings.
She turns on her heel and bolts past the open doorway, traversing the expanse of the ground floor hall and pushing through the doors of her office to the entrance of the basement.
She doesn't remember answering her phone, but suddenly it is in her hand and her assistant is speaking into her ear as she dashes down the rickety spiral staircase, a soft warm light illuminating the room.
"Doctor Yomohiro?"
She grunts, making for the cabinet by the sink, kicking aside the old paint cans and wrenching the cabinet door open - a sweet smell perfusing the stale air of the basement.
She hesitates.
"You haven't been to the hospital in a week."
Her canister of tea is nestled in the space just behind the urn of her father's ashes.
"Doctor? Doctor?"
Her hands are trembling when she reaches out and there is a cold bead of perspiration that slides down her temple, dripping off her jaw. Her fingertips skim the plain surface of the urn, icy cold under her touch, and she draws her hands back. But she licks her lips and swallows past a lump in her throat, grabbing the urn by its rim and bringing it out.
The sweet smell is coming from inside.
Her breath stutters and she reaches in, pulling out a handful of dark brown material.
It is cocoa.
She drops the urn and it smashes against2 the floor, cocoa spraying out in thick clumps over the floor as she bends over the sink and retches.
"Doctor? Doctor?" The teeny tiny voice of her assistant.
She vomits a thick wad of green phlegm and coughs until the globules are flecked with spots of red, coughs until she tastes blood and not ashes, a long string of saliva dripping down her chin, her chest.
Her phone rings.
Somehow, her phone is in her hand and she is climbing up her staircase and there is only one thought in her mind which is she must get out of here.
"Doctor Yomohiro?" It's the teeny tiny voice of her assistant though she doesn't remember answering the call. She moves past the final step and turns, down the hallway to her room.
She pushes open the door and she is in her library, all the lights on, all the books in their proper places, all the books flipped upside down.
"You haven't been to the hospital in a week."
"What the hell do you want!" She's holding herself and she's crying and she's pressing her phone to her ear though she doesn't remember ever getting it at all.
"Doctor, doctor I am sick."
"Leave me alone- just-"
"Call the doctor very quick."
"No more, please-"
"Doctor, doctor, shall I die?"
"Enough-"
"Tell my mother do not cry."
She throws her phone across the floor and sinks down on her knees, her hands over her ears.
She remembers it now, something she thought was a dream.
It had been an early morning after Midori stayed over for the night, in the better days when he'd been less busy with his university work that he could afford to spend more time with her. She wakes up and reaches out, her joints loose and liquid, the sound of twittering birds outside promising a clear day. She grasps empty sheets - Midori out for his quick jog, perhaps - and shuts her eyes for a few more minutes of sleep.
She wakes from her catnap when the bed dips beside her - he's back then - and she feels the phantom touch of fingers slide up her calf, the sweep of a palm against her knee traveling the expanse of her inner thigh with the drag of nails across her skin. Her nightgown rustles up to her hips.
Midori, yearning for a traipse in the sheets. The man could be insatiable, really. They'd done more than enough last night and yet now he is pushing apart her legs, languid and almost lazy, and she feels him settling between her thighs, the whisper of his breath on her mound.
She sighs, pleasure stirring within her like a snake slowly uncoiling. With a lazy arch of her back, she blinks her eyes open, smiles,
-and it is the red-haired man grinning up at her.
She takes a room in a small run-down hotel two blocks away from the hospital.
The receptionist is a nervous, jittery young man who keeps on glancing at her as she checks in, a stricken expression pinching the freckles across his face. He gives her a keycard with a faded 1408, watching as she enters the elevator dressed in a mismatched orange shirt and a pair of baggy green pants - the first things she got from her closet - lugging a sports bag with whatever clothing she managed to grab on to.
The elevator creaks as it climbs up, sounding like a human groan of protest. She scratches at the cuticle of her thumb, nail over skin, peeling it back. The elevator pings at the fourteenth floor, the metal doors sliding open, and she steps into the hallway past a line of dusty wall lanterns that feebly light the path. The carpet is scuffed under her rubber shoes, muffling her tread as she steps past a corner to the end of the hall.
Room 1408 is sparsely furnished: a single bed pushed against the corner, a crooked bedside table that stands on misaligned legs, a soot-stained dresser that wobbles when she sets her bag on it, and a floor lamp which she had to tap to get it to light up. The adjacent bathroom isn't any better and there is a clump of hair in the drain of the tub.
She collapses on the bed, on top of the covers, and keeps the lights on when she sleeps.
In the dream her room is different somehow, more cramped and enclosed, the air heavier. She looks down and she's in her cactus pajamas, her favorite, the one that buttons all the way from collar to hem. In her arms is the one-eyed teddy bear and its head lolls back when she lifts it up.
Kou, she remembers now. Kou is its name.
There is a sharp cry, a child's cry. She jerks her head towards the far corner of her room and- there, yes, a crib, plain white and shiny with varnish, intricate hand-carved curlicues unfurling from the guardrail.
She clutches Kou to her chest and slides off the bed, the hem of her pajama pants falling above her ankles. The child is crying still, hiccuping sobs, and she tiptoes across her room, quiet quiet quiet, peering over the headboard, slow slow slow, knowing she expects it when she sees the baby nestled on the blue sheets, small enough to fit in the crook of her arm, small small small, red hair wild and messy eyes squinted in a furious howl as he kicks at a rubber ball that thumps against the side of the crib.
"Don't cry don't cry don't cry," she murmurs, approaching her baby brother, reaching out for the crib's edge, but the dream melts when her fingers touch the wood and suddenly she's grasping at the headboard of her bed back at her house, her new house in her new room with the same yellow paint the same red-orange bedsheets, knuckles turning white as she grips it with both hands, keening when her pants are yanked down her thighs.
"I hate you," a voice murmurs against her ear, running rough fingertips over the curve of her hips.
She arches her back and pushes against the touch, burning with a phantom arousal that spreads like wildfire across her skin.
"I loathe you," the voice says, tracing her slit.
She shifts on her knees, nudges against something - her teddy bear, Kou, its one eye staring up at her.
"I'll destroy you," and then he's pumping two fingers inside her, slick and wet, forcing another finger in to stretch her with a sharp bite of pain that ebbs to pleasure, curving his back over her spine like he's mounting her to bite the shell of her ear, and from her peripheral vision she can see wild red hair shaking as he thrusts in her until she's crying, sobbing out, pushing against the fingers to take them deeper within her
turning her head to the side and glancing behind her and it's the bedroom in her old house again, the too-small bed, the red-orange sheets, Midori naked and sitting on his heels, the pressure on her back disappearing, the baby crying crying crying as she turns around and lowers herself in front of Midori, palms on either side of his thighs, his cock jutting up tip beaded with pre-come which she licks with the flat of her tongue, swirling it around the head, taking his shaft in deep deep deep in her mouth, bobbing her head up-down up-down, feeling him jerk his hips and hearing him groan, flushed with desire when she looks up at him with his cock pressed to the back of her throat his lips parted tongue lolling out clutching at her hair and she smiles, smiles, sliding him out halfway and opening her mouth as wide as she can, her teeth glinting the baby crying Midori howling when she chomps down-
She wakes up sweaty, disturbed, aroused.
The lights are still on.
She sits up and watches as a red rubber ball rolls out from beneath the bed.
The sunlight shines through the moth-eaten curtains of the hotel dining room, a renovated hall with two long tables spread out at the center containing baskets of fruit and trays of half-burnt toast and greasy sausages. She picks at the fruits, fingers skittering on the too-ripe surface of an apple which she picks up and puts on her empty plate. She trudges to the end of the table, dragging her feet behind her, her left eyelid twitching.
She claps a hand over her eye, glancing away when the man across her shoots her a puzzled look. She takes one mug and places it on the table. She picks up a packet of ready-mix coffee and tears it with her teeth. She pours the granules into the mug. She takes the hot water thermos and clicks the lid open.
A shadow flits at the periphery of her vision. She jerks her head towards its direction, at the person sitting by one of the corner tables holding up a newspaper spread. The newspaper slowly inches down, all sound dimming to a rush that fills her ears as it reveals rust red hair - lower still - severe eyebrows - lower - dark eyes grim and somber sharp as flints-
"OH MY GOD GO TO HELL YOU BITCH!" She staggers back, the hot water thermos clattering to the floor, dropping it from where she had been pouring boiling water over the hand of the man across her.
She bolts for the elevator, bearing down on the orange 14 until the metal doors slide shut, pacing the floor like a caged animal while picking at her cuticles, scratch scratch, tearing at the nail with her teeth, scratch scratch, blood trickling down to the base of her finger.
The elevator pings and she runs out, slipping on the ground and hitting her hip against the corner, one knee slamming to the ground - a sharp starburst of pain she ignores as she claws at the carpet and sprints the remaining way to her room. She slams her keycard on the reader and shoves the door open and it isn't the hotel room anymore, no, it's the room back at her old house with the red-orange blankets and the crib at the far corner, the faint tinkling of a music box, Kou the teddy bear looking at her with its one remaining eye-
"Daddy's home!" yells someone from downstairs and she feels a strong shiver rack up her spine, an icy grip of fear that mingles with the sicksharpknifeedge arousal that flushes through her and-
she blinks and she's back in the hotel room, hot, sweaty, a sudden rap on her door making her jump - when did she close her door? - turning around and opening it to the frightened face of the receptionist, freckles standing out clearly against his pale skin.
"E-Excuse me? Is everything all right?" He mumbles.
When did she close her door? she thinks.
"T-The couple next door s-said they heard slamming l-like the room was being t-trashed-" He clamps his lips together.
She stares at him from beneath the fringe of her hair - "I don't know what you're talking about" - slamming the door on him and wheeling around to look at the mess of the room, the dresser upturned, the covers ripped off the bed, the lamp smashed, when did she close her door? she thinks, Tell me tell me tell me the answer, you may be a lover but you ain't no dancer.
She gnaws on her thumb. The skin breaks.
She stays at her office in the hospital.
It's easier here where it's busy, the PA system ringing with announcements, the sound of doors opening and closing, people milling about in the hallways. She sags against her chair and lets her cheek collapse on the polished surface of her desk, inconceivably tired, fighting to keep awake and move with the leaden weight of her body but sinking further and further and further.
It's a dream - she knows it is. She's back in the room of her new house except her teddy bear is lying at the center of the bed and a white, ornate crib is rocking near the window.
The image crackles with the snowy static of a broken television screen, and swims back to focus.
The teddy bear is sitting, staring at her with its one eye.
"Are you happy?"
Its mouth doesn't move but she knows the voice is coming from it, the teddy bear, her one-eyed teddy bear named Kou.
Her dream seems to reach the end of its reel because it stops, jumps, runs over a film with two mismatched ends because in place of the teddy bear is the red-haired man with red eyes.
"Your father is rotting in hell."
She squeezes her thighs together.
He smirks. "I'm going to win."
"Who are you?" She whispers, taking one step towards him.
His smirk widens, his lips forming a gash that splits across his pale face.
He opens his mouth-
"Doctor? Your patient is ready."
She lifts her head off the desk and looks at her assistant standing at the doorway of her office.
"Doctor?"
She sits up and rubs the sleep from her eyes.
"Yes?"
"The patient is ready. The operation."
She tilts her head.
"The mitral valve replacement surgery."
She hums a noncommittal noise.
"Doctor?"
She looks at her assistant.
"The patient is ready."
She hums, "Look out helter skelter."
"I'm sorry?" Her assistant blinks at her.
She shakes her head. Smiles.
"Nothing. I'll go get ready."
The operating room lights are bright and harsh, illuminating the patient lying sedated on top of a sterile steel table surrounded by tubes and wires. She takes a deep breath, just as she had always done before her surgeries, and places the tip of the scalpel on the patient's chest, sliding the blade down and cutting through skin, flesh, muscles, blood oozing from the gash.
A bead of sweat trickles down her forehead, her eye. She blinks and raises her arm to wipe it against her sleeve.
The heart monitor beeps steadily.
Beneath her hands, she feels the heart beating - the muscles pulsing to sustain life - and watches the rhythmic seize and pump seize and pump seize-and-pump. This is strength, control, the absolute omniscience of a god looking down, and she's back in her old bedroom lying on the bedsheets, her brother wailing somewhere in the distance but she keeps her eyes closed.
She shrugs her shoulder, one strap of the nightgown slipping down her upper arm, and it's so much easier now, a tender coax really, to glide her fingers down her chest and cup her breast with her palm, to knead her nipple into a hard nub that buzzes with an electric tingle when she pinches it with two fingers.
The heart beats beneath her hands, fluttering, her scalpel poised on top of it, the heart monitor beeping steadily like a staccato which punctuates the hiccuping sobs of her baby brother and-
The bed dips beside her and she turns towards it but doesn't yet open her eyes, feeling that heavy awareness of being watched once more, a steady pressure that makes her keen at the damp moisture between her legs.
-the heart opening up beneath her blade, blood pooling bright red and vibrant-
She jerks her panties down, so ardent that she foregoes it midway down her thighs, spreading her labia with one hand, with her other plunging two fingers deep, deeper, there - right inside her cunt. She moans - are you watching - riding her fingers close to her ecstasy, spreading herself - can you see this - adding a third finger to slice into her, close, so goddamn close-
-the heart monitor stutters into an irregular beeping rhythm, the sounds of people yelling receding into the background-
Her lashes flutter open and she looks up at the face of her father, his gray eyes dark and heated and sharp as flints as he stares down at her.
His hand settles on top of her thigh.
The heart monitor beeps one final, unchanging note.
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