fic: beautiful as usual with bruises on her ego
Title: beautiful as usual, with bruises on her ego
Fandom: Ace Attorney
Length: 883 words.
Pairing(s): Implied Gant/Lana.
Contains/Rating: Mindfuckery. Abuse. Gant being a complete and utter motherfucker. My inability to write. PG-13 for implied abuse, I suppose.
Notes: This sucks. Lana doesn't. Gant sucks too.
Summary: Lana is Gant's puppet, in more ways than one.
Her first thought is for her sister. The second is for her safety.
She screams.
Arms flop backwards onto her bed, steadying herself as her stomach lurches, that curious feeling of falling wedged in her gut as her eyes open, breath wheezing as she sits up. Lana Skye is ill. She is worried, and she is paranoid. Nothing is new here. Pulling her long brown fringe from her face, Lana bites down on her lip, resting against the headboard as her chest expands and contracts at a dizzying rate. A nightmare? How infantile. Lana Skye was twenty-eight. Surely, by now, she should have left the monsters that lived under her bed behind?
Light. Light is what she needs, and she fumbles in the dark for her bedside lamp, for that switch on a cable that is so erroneously placed. As the brightness clicks into her vision, Lana moans, instantly regretting it. Stars blink rapidly, exploding in front of her aching eyes, the abyss in her head spinning angrily in protest. Gingerly, she tries opening her eyes - one at a time. One blue iris squints in the sudden brightness, followed by the next. Sweating feet hit a chilly floor. Lana shivers, and makes her way to the bathroom.
Another light switch clicks. She glances at herself in the mirror. What a mess she is.
A cut lies across her right eyebrow, a graze on her cheek. Bruises lie under her eyes from a compilation of fists and insomnia. Lana throws water over her face, and the cut bleeds anew. Cursing in frustration, Lana watches the beads of silvery water streak down her cheeks. Some are saltier than others.
She raises her arms to her chest, crossing them across her torso. Cuts are visible, as are bruises that were where hand prints had been. She bites her lip in concentration, and opens the bathroom cabinet. A plaster for her eyebrow. A bandage for her arm. An aspirin for the paranoia.
It is 4am, Lana remembers. As a prosecutor, she sees everything - even a split second glance at her alarm as she left for the bathroom. She does not care, and runs the tap anyway, pressing the handle down to allow warm water to gush over her shower walls. Pulling off her dirty shirt and pyjama bottoms, Lana does not look at her stomach. She does not look at her legs. She unclasps her bra efficiently, and inserts herself into the shower.
Lana sits, and allows the warm water to consume her as she cries.
The phone rings. Lana's ears are alert instantly, and she towels herself rapidly and walks through to the living room, the telephone on the stand. Perhaps it is Marshall. Perhaps he has something to tell Lana, something about a case. Some mundane details that would allow her to revel in forgetfulness for a minute or two.
Then she remembers - it is five o clock in the morning, and nobody calls this early apart from him.
She picks up the receiver with a shaking hand. Throat dry, larynx tilted slightly, only a rasping noise comes from her throat. She tries again. “H-hello?”
The cool, calm, smarmy voice answers. “Good morning, Lana.” Damon Gant pauses, to laugh slightly. “How are you feeling?”
Lana has an urge to slam the phone down.
“Fine,” she mutters. “Why do you call so early? You know I hate it.” Lana bites her lip. She has said too much. There is a silence at the end of the line.
“I know,” Damon says simply, and laughs again. “I'm inviting you over at eleven. Don't be late.”
Lana swallows, a harsh jagged cyst of anxiety. “I... I've got work to do.”
Damon pauses. “I don't think you understand, Lana. You're coming over at precisely eleven to discuss the case file, yes?”
Lana blinks, steadying herself on the arm of the sofa. “No...” she says softly, and once more with feeling. “No, I'm not.”
“I'm sorry?” he asks, his voice a dangerously low hum. There is silence.
“You... you heard me,” she says powerfully, her voice cracking. “I'm not c-coming.”
She puts the phone down quickly.
Lana winces, a hand raising to her mouth as she bites her nails to prevent herself from crying out. What should she do? He would be here soon, he would be displeased with her, and she.... she would be gone. She decides. She is going to leave.
Panicked, Lana runs quietly into the room next door. Her sister is asleep, breathing deeply into her soft pillow, and Lana stops. The serenity of her fifteen year old sister, blissfully unaware of the consequences about to unfold stops her dead, and Lana chokes. Part of her is compelled to tell her, tell her the reason she is frozen. It is easier not to feel, than to feel pain and its repercussions. It is easier to lie. Experience has taught Lana that much, and she walks over to Ema's bed, and kneels by her side.
“It's.... it's going to be alright,” Lana whispers softly, stroking Ema's mahogany hair. “Everything's going to be alright. I promise.” Lana's eyes threaten to gloss over again, and an instant hand raises to her eyes, brushing the wetness away. “I promise.”
Lana kisses her sister on the cheek.
Then, the doorbell rings.