One Scar by scap3goat
Challenge: Slave
Title: One Scar
Author: DraQla (aka scap3goat)
Characters/Pairing: Weir; BeckWeir
Rating: PG
Words: 598
Summary: One Scar for each wasn't enough to represent them.
Note: No beta, written quickly in one go in the middle of the night, author emotionally attached to the topic and may explode when exposed to flames. ;)
She was bearing them. Scars. Dozens.
One scar for every man or woman that died under her command. And more…
And sometimes she felt as if it left her with thousands of scars. Felt that it had to be thousands.
One scar for one lost life simply wasn’t enough. Neither were two or three. Or seven or twenty or a hundred.
And though she felt that there never were enough scars, it simply were to many.
She felt that she should feel more guilty and she felt that there shouldn’t be so many dead.
And then she was torn between blaming herself for not having enough scars and having too many. Was torn between feeling guilty for not feeling guilty enough and feeling guilty for still being her, being alive and living.
It kept her from sleeping. It also kept her from eating and thinking ‘serious’ thoughts.
But mostly it kept her from sleeping, because this feeling came when the lights went. When the darkness crawled across the floor, into her rooms and into her heart, mind and soul.
Like a cold hand, a bony cold dead hand it reached into her chest and the cold spread all over her body, the cold and the emptiness. Like the hand was sucking everything out of her, leaving an empty shell behind.
An Empty and, while not necessarily broken, yet certainly cracked shell.
No, it was too much. The pain was too much. She couldn’t breath anymore, she was suffocating.
Her body began to tense, she was almost gasping, until soft hands caressed her arms and shoulders, glided over her hip and stomach.
“Relax. It’s okay… it was just a bad dream! I’m sure it will be gone in a few moments. Just relax, don’t panic. It’s over now, I’m with you.”
Liz closed her eyes. It was true, he was with her. He was with her in all those cold nights, filled with the terrors risen from the deepest abyss of her very own soul and core.
He was the one to chase her demons away or, at least, keep them at bay.
And he never complained when she accidentally woke him. He never asked why she almost had a fit, he never said anything other than ‘bad dream’ although she was sure that he knew it more likely was her guilt and conscience giving her troubles from time to time.
He still was caressing her, running the palms of his hand over her body as if her terrors and fears were creases he could flatten out.
But it really was soothing and she felt her conscious slipping, her concentration fading and the last sensible thought she managed to grasp was the question if she ever could sleep normal again, without any ‘exorcise-rites’.
“Sleep,” Carson told her softly and let his hand glide over her thigh. He could feel the gentle bulges of scars and dried blood.
He finally have had to come to terms with her obsession. He had tried to stop her, to trick her into stopping, to bribe her, even had considered leaving her.
He had been shocked after the revelation.
Had done some serious thinking.
Had tried to talk to Heightmeyer.
Had tried to talk to Liz.
Had fallen in love with her nonetheless.
Had stayed.
And finally he had stopped taking all the blades and hiding them away.
He had come to terms with her cutting.
It wasn’t a danger for her life… not really random, he tried to tell himself.
One scar for every member of the team who died... and even more...
Title: One Scar
Author: DraQla (aka scap3goat)
Characters/Pairing: Weir; BeckWeir
Rating: PG
Words: 598
Summary: One Scar for each wasn't enough to represent them.
Note: No beta, written quickly in one go in the middle of the night, author emotionally attached to the topic and may explode when exposed to flames. ;)
She was bearing them. Scars. Dozens.
One scar for every man or woman that died under her command. And more…
And sometimes she felt as if it left her with thousands of scars. Felt that it had to be thousands.
One scar for one lost life simply wasn’t enough. Neither were two or three. Or seven or twenty or a hundred.
And though she felt that there never were enough scars, it simply were to many.
She felt that she should feel more guilty and she felt that there shouldn’t be so many dead.
And then she was torn between blaming herself for not having enough scars and having too many. Was torn between feeling guilty for not feeling guilty enough and feeling guilty for still being her, being alive and living.
It kept her from sleeping. It also kept her from eating and thinking ‘serious’ thoughts.
But mostly it kept her from sleeping, because this feeling came when the lights went. When the darkness crawled across the floor, into her rooms and into her heart, mind and soul.
Like a cold hand, a bony cold dead hand it reached into her chest and the cold spread all over her body, the cold and the emptiness. Like the hand was sucking everything out of her, leaving an empty shell behind.
An Empty and, while not necessarily broken, yet certainly cracked shell.
No, it was too much. The pain was too much. She couldn’t breath anymore, she was suffocating.
Her body began to tense, she was almost gasping, until soft hands caressed her arms and shoulders, glided over her hip and stomach.
“Relax. It’s okay… it was just a bad dream! I’m sure it will be gone in a few moments. Just relax, don’t panic. It’s over now, I’m with you.”
Liz closed her eyes. It was true, he was with her. He was with her in all those cold nights, filled with the terrors risen from the deepest abyss of her very own soul and core.
He was the one to chase her demons away or, at least, keep them at bay.
And he never complained when she accidentally woke him. He never asked why she almost had a fit, he never said anything other than ‘bad dream’ although she was sure that he knew it more likely was her guilt and conscience giving her troubles from time to time.
He still was caressing her, running the palms of his hand over her body as if her terrors and fears were creases he could flatten out.
But it really was soothing and she felt her conscious slipping, her concentration fading and the last sensible thought she managed to grasp was the question if she ever could sleep normal again, without any ‘exorcise-rites’.
“Sleep,” Carson told her softly and let his hand glide over her thigh. He could feel the gentle bulges of scars and dried blood.
He finally have had to come to terms with her obsession. He had tried to stop her, to trick her into stopping, to bribe her, even had considered leaving her.
He had been shocked after the revelation.
Had done some serious thinking.
Had tried to talk to Heightmeyer.
Had tried to talk to Liz.
Had fallen in love with her nonetheless.
Had stayed.
And finally he had stopped taking all the blades and hiding them away.
He had come to terms with her cutting.
It wasn’t a danger for her life… not really random, he tried to tell himself.
One scar for every member of the team who died... and even more...