VM fic: Remember Me With Blood (Duncan) R
So, the other day I was in sort of a dark, nostalgic, train-of-thought kind of mood, and I wrote this lovely little thing. It's a little weird and a lot dark (though not as much as some of the Duncan fic I've seen...) and so I warn you that it's less than happy and such. But, I finally came up with an ending for it, so I figured, 'why not? There'll always be someone out there more twisted than me.'
So, here you have it:
Title: Remember Me With Blood
Author: Shealynn88
Rating: R (violence and mental anguish)
Word Count: ~600 words
Summary: Duncan angsts post 'Weapons of Class Destruction'
A/N: I was in a pretty dark place when I wrote this. It is dark and a little sad, and a LOT angsty. You have been warned. I will also say, without apology, that I like Duncan. I think he's a stand-up guy, and I think the idea that he might have killed his sister would really mess him up.
Nothing feels the same when you find out you’re a murderer, Duncan discovers. He wonders what other secrets his mind hides from him. What did he do during that blackout at soccer camp? That girl who drowned…was that him?
Was this why he drank so much? Was this why he felt nauseous for no reason? Was it this, all that time-just the murderer in him, trying to get out?
It made him sick to think about it, but he couldn't stop.
He had to know. Had to know what it had been like, felt like, to do it. To kill his own sister.
She'd driven him crazy. She always had. But that was what sisters did. He'd never had a problem with it. He'd loved her, and even with her being older, he'd wanted to protect her. From all those stupid dicks at school who wanted a piece of her. Usually, he'd just wanted to protect her from herself.
How silly it seemed now. How impossibly wrong and ironic and horribly sad.
He'd bought the blades earlier, at a little shop where he didn't need to know Spanish…just handed a few bills over the counter and let the bored clerk count his change back. He didn't care if the change was right. He didn't expect to be needing it.
He traced them over his skin, lightly. He wasn't cutting. Not yet. Just…trying to remember. What her blood has looked like, streaming over the concrete. He'd seen the video. Could remember that. Her blood congealing next to the pool. Her eyes staring blankly to the side.
She'd never call him 'Donut' again. He'd hated that nickname.
He pushed. Just a little. Just for a reminder.
His blood came up in a straight line, poised on his skin in little beads of red so dark they were black. Her blood must have looked like that. Same DNA had gone into both of them. Same people had made them.
Same person would un-make them.
Why couldn't he remember? He'd imagined it, a million ways now, played it out in his mind like scenarios from the Clue board game. Duncan, in the study, with a candlestick. Duncan, in the kitchen, with a knife. But he knew how it had gone down, didn't he? And some sick part of him, buried in the darkness, there…some part of him had enjoyed it.
Duncan, by the pool, with an ashtray.
There was a killer inside him, an elusive whisper…if he could just find him, pin him down and examine him…
If he could just do that, maybe he could understand why. Why he'd killed her. Why he couldn't remember. Why his parents had covered it up and called it an accident. Because he couldn't imagine forgiving something like that. Couldn't imagine giving anyone a pass for smashing an ashtray into her skull hard enough to break her. With enough malice to crack her open and make her crumple to the ground.
He couldn't forgive that. Wouldn't.
He cut a little deeper this time, watching the blood flow black into the sheets, staining them red.
He almost had it. Almost felt the sickening give of her head when he hit her. Almost saw the indignant surprise on her face. It was there, just there, just beyond his grasp.
Understanding was just around that next dark bend, just the other side of sleep, and Duncan let himself drift off in search of the truth.
He only hoped that when he woke-if he woke-the only blood on the sheets would be his own.
So, here you have it:
Title: Remember Me With Blood
Author: Shealynn88
Rating: R (violence and mental anguish)
Word Count: ~600 words
Summary: Duncan angsts post 'Weapons of Class Destruction'
A/N: I was in a pretty dark place when I wrote this. It is dark and a little sad, and a LOT angsty. You have been warned. I will also say, without apology, that I like Duncan. I think he's a stand-up guy, and I think the idea that he might have killed his sister would really mess him up.
Nothing feels the same when you find out you’re a murderer, Duncan discovers. He wonders what other secrets his mind hides from him. What did he do during that blackout at soccer camp? That girl who drowned…was that him?
Was this why he drank so much? Was this why he felt nauseous for no reason? Was it this, all that time-just the murderer in him, trying to get out?
It made him sick to think about it, but he couldn't stop.
He had to know. Had to know what it had been like, felt like, to do it. To kill his own sister.
She'd driven him crazy. She always had. But that was what sisters did. He'd never had a problem with it. He'd loved her, and even with her being older, he'd wanted to protect her. From all those stupid dicks at school who wanted a piece of her. Usually, he'd just wanted to protect her from herself.
How silly it seemed now. How impossibly wrong and ironic and horribly sad.
He'd bought the blades earlier, at a little shop where he didn't need to know Spanish…just handed a few bills over the counter and let the bored clerk count his change back. He didn't care if the change was right. He didn't expect to be needing it.
He traced them over his skin, lightly. He wasn't cutting. Not yet. Just…trying to remember. What her blood has looked like, streaming over the concrete. He'd seen the video. Could remember that. Her blood congealing next to the pool. Her eyes staring blankly to the side.
She'd never call him 'Donut' again. He'd hated that nickname.
He pushed. Just a little. Just for a reminder.
His blood came up in a straight line, poised on his skin in little beads of red so dark they were black. Her blood must have looked like that. Same DNA had gone into both of them. Same people had made them.
Same person would un-make them.
Why couldn't he remember? He'd imagined it, a million ways now, played it out in his mind like scenarios from the Clue board game. Duncan, in the study, with a candlestick. Duncan, in the kitchen, with a knife. But he knew how it had gone down, didn't he? And some sick part of him, buried in the darkness, there…some part of him had enjoyed it.
Duncan, by the pool, with an ashtray.
There was a killer inside him, an elusive whisper…if he could just find him, pin him down and examine him…
If he could just do that, maybe he could understand why. Why he'd killed her. Why he couldn't remember. Why his parents had covered it up and called it an accident. Because he couldn't imagine forgiving something like that. Couldn't imagine giving anyone a pass for smashing an ashtray into her skull hard enough to break her. With enough malice to crack her open and make her crumple to the ground.
He couldn't forgive that. Wouldn't.
He cut a little deeper this time, watching the blood flow black into the sheets, staining them red.
He almost had it. Almost felt the sickening give of her head when he hit her. Almost saw the indignant surprise on her face. It was there, just there, just beyond his grasp.
Understanding was just around that next dark bend, just the other side of sleep, and Duncan let himself drift off in search of the truth.
He only hoped that when he woke-if he woke-the only blood on the sheets would be his own.