Post by carcinoGeneticist on Dec 10, 2009 13:10:57 GMT -5
Scars [Prompt #9]
Characters: Apocalypse, mention of Heilyn, Xiven, Bernard, Seth, and probably some other people that I forgot
Warnings: Swearing and a very.. descriptive section of violence to self. It made my fiancé feel sick. I feel accomplished.
I'm making extra sure that people see this. It's gross. It's really vivid. It hurt to write, and from what I've heard, it's almost impossible to read. <3 Proceed with caution near the end!
Words: 1990
It took a few hours until Heilyn's body went still in his arms, her sobbing finally subsiding and making way for the more rhythmic, natural patterns of sleep. Apocalypse held onto her for longer than that, waiting to make sure she was going to stay asleep even when he slipped away from her side. He'd learned that trick quickly, after the first night had her waking after he'd left her side. He could tell. She'd had a killer hangover the following morning that should have been impossible, considering she'd not touched a drop of alcohol while he'd been beside her.
So he stayed for longer, matching her breathing with his own, listening to the tattoo of her heartbeat.
He didn't mind putting in the time. After all, there wasn't much else he needed to do in the dead of night, and the woman clearly needed the comfort of being held by a trusted person to ease her paranoia and pain enough that she could finally sleep.
Tonight, Apocalypse had no idea what time it was when the Queen seemed secure. He only knew that he was tired himself, and that he wouldn't get any rest while he was so focused on the woman in his arms and her mental state. So he slowly released his grip on her, pulling first one arm away and then the other, careful not to shift her too much. He didn't want to wake her. Then he sat up, looking down at her with a softness in his eyes. So much pain. They'd all had so much pain in the last week, every event coming so quickly on the heels of the event before it that none of them had a chance to recover. Xiven's miscarriage. Seth's death and the birth of five needy infants. Bernard's abrupt passing. Though he had to push aside his own pain to see it, the King could recognize that of them all, Heilyn had lost the most.
Before he left the room, he leaned in and kissed her exposed shoulder, then pulled the blanket over her. She looked so peaceful, even with her eyes swollen as they were. Then he stood and crept across to the door, slipping out as silently as he could.
It wasn't until he reached his own room and smashed the remnants of his mauled ring finger against the door that he let out the scream he'd been struggling to hold in, hoarse and full of rage. "Motherfucking son of a...!"
The source of his anger, at first glance, was that a part of his body had been rendered crippled and useless by that damn Spade King's attack on the Court. How many times a day did he smash it against the handle of a door, drag it against a rough surface, or knock his inkwell over as it refused to bend out of the way like the others? He still had a stump, but he was quickly finding that it would have been easier for him if the shadow-creature had managed to rip the whole thing off as cleanly as it had taken his pinky. Most of his left hand, it seemed, was covered in crisp white bandages, and beneath the bandages, hideous scabs.
Apocalypse had grown used to scabs, though. He'd only really been alive for a few years, and in that time, he'd picked a fight with almost every asshole on the street to give him a sideways glance. He took pride in the fact that he'd come out on the top of all but one of these scraps, and his enemy always ended up worse-off than he did. Which wasn't to say that he managed to walk away unharmed, of course. Just that he was - and continued to be - okay.
Just look at Varestes. The albino man might have been covered in bruises, missing a finger and a half, and walked out with a chunk of flesh torn out of his thigh... but he had walked out of the situation.
The other King's head was still impaled on a pike on the main gate of the Court.
Besides, all of those old wounds had healed over. They left their marks on his body in the form of areas where the skin felt too smooth, too tight when he stretched. The scars were trophies in a sense, evidence of exactly how bloody durable and tenacious the Weapon-turned-man really was. He sometimes looked at himself in the mirror and wondered how much longer he had to live, if he'd collected so many scars in such a short amount of time. It never bothered him enough, especially when he finally decided that he liked his scars. For more reasons than just the reminder they provided. Women seemed to quite like them, and Apocalypse liked those women. It was a win-win situation.
His stump of a finger, however, he didn't like.
It was ugly. It was crippled, no longer providing anything more than a near-constant source of pain. If anything, it detracted from his ability to function normally. None of his other battle-scars were like that. As the gut-wrenching pain slowly faded away, Apocalypse stared down at his own hand. Then he slowly started to unwind the bandages that covered his hand, crossing the room and sitting heavily in his chair. He had to pull hard to get the bandages off all the way - a loud hiss slipped through clenched teeth as part of the damn scab ripped off with the bandages.
Parts of what was left of his finger weren't covered in scabs. They were red, raw and angry. A lot of skin had been removed as well as muscle and - near the tip - bone. The digit was hideous now, and Apocalypse knew it wasn't going to look much better once it had healed. If it healed. The edges of the skin that was left was slightly discolored, and when he sniffed at it, he had to fight the urge to gag.
It looked as if infection was going to run its course. It made sense, of course. His hands had been covered in all matter of viscera after the damage had been done. The doctors had tried to clean the wounds, but the man himself was confident that it had been done too late.
He wasn't really thinking when he picked up the short knife off his desk, twirling it between the still-agile fingers of his right hand.
The blade flashed in the light. It was sharp, he knew. He often sharpened it just for the sake of doing something when he got too bored. He'd used it earlier in the day to cut up an apple for a quick snack. He'd need to clean it - there was a bottle of vodka stored in one of his drawers, a "just in case" that never saw the light of day. He pulled it out, pouring some of the clear liquid onto the metal. Then he struck a match, watching the alcohol blaze blue across the knife, searing whatever had been on it.
As an afterthought, Apocalypse took a deep swig of the vodka himself.
It would hurt. It would hurt like hell, especially since he'd used his pain-ignore only a few hours before. But he could see infection, and he knew that if he didn't do something, it would spread. Into his hand, first. Then his arm. Then it might kill him. Maybe it had already spread - maybe it was making him delusional, mad, desperate. Was he feverish? Oh, dear, that would mean he didn't have much longer, he'd have to act fast... No time for a doctor, was there?
Heh. He knew full well that nothing was wrong with him beyond the stump his eyes were locked on. That would just be a convenient excuse if anyone tried to scold him.
Without another thought, Apocalypse set his hand on the desk, then slammed the knife down onto the crippled stump. There was a strange noise before the pain, and for a split second the man thought he'd missed and simply stabbed into the table. No, he realized as blood gushed across the wood. He'd sunken the blade into the table, yes, but his finger had come in between the two.
He grunted, sinking his teeth into his lip to hold back a scream. There was the sensation he'd been missing.
The pain was terrible. It was almost enough to make him want to pass out, to throw up, to cry. He did none of those things, just tightened his grip on the hilt of the knife and slowly worked the blade back and forth until he felt something pop. The bone. That must have been what was left of the bone slipping free from its joint. One last hard push on the blade finally fully separated what was left of the flesh holding the digit on, and he fell back in the chair. Finally, he let himself clutch his hand. He could feel his heart thudding dully beneath his grasp, the warmth of his own blood quickly coating his good hand. His lips were wet with a combination of blood from his own biting and saliva from the ragged gasps that managed to escape him.
It took a minute before the man felt he could move again. He shifted to grab the discarded bandages, pressing them as tightly against the newly-opened wound as he could. The pain made his head spin, but he forced himself onward, binding his own hand so tightly that it hurt almost worse than the injury itself. He had to stop the bleeding before he could do what he wanted to do - at this point, burrow into his blankets and sleep the pain away.
It took four new bandages and the rest of the bottle of vodka before the newest wrap took more than a few minutes to go crimson. As far as he could see, it wasn't changing at all. That was good. That meant it was closing, his body doing its job well.
After another moment and several deep breaths, Apocalypse forced himself back to his feet. Alcohol and bloodloss were not a good combination, he reflected, but he managed to stumble into his bed.
The next morning, he woke to the feeling of his hand throbbing dully, a bone-deep ache that was enough to make him gasp. There was blood on the bandages again, he realized. And the sheets. And his pillow, and his blankets. This was going to be a slow process, the King reflected, binding another sheet of gauze over the wound. Then, as an afterthought, he crossed the room and flicked the hunk of flesh and bone that was his finger into the trash. He'd need to get someone trained in that sort of thing to clean up that mess as well as the one he'd left on his sheets. Then he'd need to smuggle the supplies he needed out of the medical center and hope no one found him. He'd done it before, preferring his own half-educated care to the potential of that damn bird nagging him or requesting that he undergo yet another psychiatric evaluation. It was all a part of the process.
But it was his process. This was his choice, his action. He'd been crippled by the infernal stump of meat, and for a little while, he'd be crippled by its loss.
The wound would heal, with time. The flesh would stitch closed over the place where once, he'd had a fully-functioning finger, much as it was doing where his pinky had been. The skin would be tight there, even more white than it was over the rest of his body. His other fingers would seem weak for a few weeks, a few months, but then they would learn to grip just as tightly as they had before any of this had happened.
The only memory that he'd even had a ring and pinky finger on his left hand would be the scars, and even they would look natural next to the many that he already bore.
Characters: Apocalypse, mention of Heilyn, Xiven, Bernard, Seth, and probably some other people that I forgot
Warnings: Swearing and a very.. descriptive section of violence to self. It made my fiancé feel sick. I feel accomplished.
I'm making extra sure that people see this. It's gross. It's really vivid. It hurt to write, and from what I've heard, it's almost impossible to read. <3 Proceed with caution near the end!
Words: 1990
It took a few hours until Heilyn's body went still in his arms, her sobbing finally subsiding and making way for the more rhythmic, natural patterns of sleep. Apocalypse held onto her for longer than that, waiting to make sure she was going to stay asleep even when he slipped away from her side. He'd learned that trick quickly, after the first night had her waking after he'd left her side. He could tell. She'd had a killer hangover the following morning that should have been impossible, considering she'd not touched a drop of alcohol while he'd been beside her.
So he stayed for longer, matching her breathing with his own, listening to the tattoo of her heartbeat.
He didn't mind putting in the time. After all, there wasn't much else he needed to do in the dead of night, and the woman clearly needed the comfort of being held by a trusted person to ease her paranoia and pain enough that she could finally sleep.
Tonight, Apocalypse had no idea what time it was when the Queen seemed secure. He only knew that he was tired himself, and that he wouldn't get any rest while he was so focused on the woman in his arms and her mental state. So he slowly released his grip on her, pulling first one arm away and then the other, careful not to shift her too much. He didn't want to wake her. Then he sat up, looking down at her with a softness in his eyes. So much pain. They'd all had so much pain in the last week, every event coming so quickly on the heels of the event before it that none of them had a chance to recover. Xiven's miscarriage. Seth's death and the birth of five needy infants. Bernard's abrupt passing. Though he had to push aside his own pain to see it, the King could recognize that of them all, Heilyn had lost the most.
Before he left the room, he leaned in and kissed her exposed shoulder, then pulled the blanket over her. She looked so peaceful, even with her eyes swollen as they were. Then he stood and crept across to the door, slipping out as silently as he could.
It wasn't until he reached his own room and smashed the remnants of his mauled ring finger against the door that he let out the scream he'd been struggling to hold in, hoarse and full of rage. "Motherfucking son of a...!"
The source of his anger, at first glance, was that a part of his body had been rendered crippled and useless by that damn Spade King's attack on the Court. How many times a day did he smash it against the handle of a door, drag it against a rough surface, or knock his inkwell over as it refused to bend out of the way like the others? He still had a stump, but he was quickly finding that it would have been easier for him if the shadow-creature had managed to rip the whole thing off as cleanly as it had taken his pinky. Most of his left hand, it seemed, was covered in crisp white bandages, and beneath the bandages, hideous scabs.
Apocalypse had grown used to scabs, though. He'd only really been alive for a few years, and in that time, he'd picked a fight with almost every asshole on the street to give him a sideways glance. He took pride in the fact that he'd come out on the top of all but one of these scraps, and his enemy always ended up worse-off than he did. Which wasn't to say that he managed to walk away unharmed, of course. Just that he was - and continued to be - okay.
Just look at Varestes. The albino man might have been covered in bruises, missing a finger and a half, and walked out with a chunk of flesh torn out of his thigh... but he had walked out of the situation.
The other King's head was still impaled on a pike on the main gate of the Court.
Besides, all of those old wounds had healed over. They left their marks on his body in the form of areas where the skin felt too smooth, too tight when he stretched. The scars were trophies in a sense, evidence of exactly how bloody durable and tenacious the Weapon-turned-man really was. He sometimes looked at himself in the mirror and wondered how much longer he had to live, if he'd collected so many scars in such a short amount of time. It never bothered him enough, especially when he finally decided that he liked his scars. For more reasons than just the reminder they provided. Women seemed to quite like them, and Apocalypse liked those women. It was a win-win situation.
His stump of a finger, however, he didn't like.
It was ugly. It was crippled, no longer providing anything more than a near-constant source of pain. If anything, it detracted from his ability to function normally. None of his other battle-scars were like that. As the gut-wrenching pain slowly faded away, Apocalypse stared down at his own hand. Then he slowly started to unwind the bandages that covered his hand, crossing the room and sitting heavily in his chair. He had to pull hard to get the bandages off all the way - a loud hiss slipped through clenched teeth as part of the damn scab ripped off with the bandages.
Parts of what was left of his finger weren't covered in scabs. They were red, raw and angry. A lot of skin had been removed as well as muscle and - near the tip - bone. The digit was hideous now, and Apocalypse knew it wasn't going to look much better once it had healed. If it healed. The edges of the skin that was left was slightly discolored, and when he sniffed at it, he had to fight the urge to gag.
It looked as if infection was going to run its course. It made sense, of course. His hands had been covered in all matter of viscera after the damage had been done. The doctors had tried to clean the wounds, but the man himself was confident that it had been done too late.
He wasn't really thinking when he picked up the short knife off his desk, twirling it between the still-agile fingers of his right hand.
The blade flashed in the light. It was sharp, he knew. He often sharpened it just for the sake of doing something when he got too bored. He'd used it earlier in the day to cut up an apple for a quick snack. He'd need to clean it - there was a bottle of vodka stored in one of his drawers, a "just in case" that never saw the light of day. He pulled it out, pouring some of the clear liquid onto the metal. Then he struck a match, watching the alcohol blaze blue across the knife, searing whatever had been on it.
As an afterthought, Apocalypse took a deep swig of the vodka himself.
It would hurt. It would hurt like hell, especially since he'd used his pain-ignore only a few hours before. But he could see infection, and he knew that if he didn't do something, it would spread. Into his hand, first. Then his arm. Then it might kill him. Maybe it had already spread - maybe it was making him delusional, mad, desperate. Was he feverish? Oh, dear, that would mean he didn't have much longer, he'd have to act fast... No time for a doctor, was there?
Heh. He knew full well that nothing was wrong with him beyond the stump his eyes were locked on. That would just be a convenient excuse if anyone tried to scold him.
Without another thought, Apocalypse set his hand on the desk, then slammed the knife down onto the crippled stump. There was a strange noise before the pain, and for a split second the man thought he'd missed and simply stabbed into the table. No, he realized as blood gushed across the wood. He'd sunken the blade into the table, yes, but his finger had come in between the two.
He grunted, sinking his teeth into his lip to hold back a scream. There was the sensation he'd been missing.
The pain was terrible. It was almost enough to make him want to pass out, to throw up, to cry. He did none of those things, just tightened his grip on the hilt of the knife and slowly worked the blade back and forth until he felt something pop. The bone. That must have been what was left of the bone slipping free from its joint. One last hard push on the blade finally fully separated what was left of the flesh holding the digit on, and he fell back in the chair. Finally, he let himself clutch his hand. He could feel his heart thudding dully beneath his grasp, the warmth of his own blood quickly coating his good hand. His lips were wet with a combination of blood from his own biting and saliva from the ragged gasps that managed to escape him.
It took a minute before the man felt he could move again. He shifted to grab the discarded bandages, pressing them as tightly against the newly-opened wound as he could. The pain made his head spin, but he forced himself onward, binding his own hand so tightly that it hurt almost worse than the injury itself. He had to stop the bleeding before he could do what he wanted to do - at this point, burrow into his blankets and sleep the pain away.
It took four new bandages and the rest of the bottle of vodka before the newest wrap took more than a few minutes to go crimson. As far as he could see, it wasn't changing at all. That was good. That meant it was closing, his body doing its job well.
After another moment and several deep breaths, Apocalypse forced himself back to his feet. Alcohol and bloodloss were not a good combination, he reflected, but he managed to stumble into his bed.
The next morning, he woke to the feeling of his hand throbbing dully, a bone-deep ache that was enough to make him gasp. There was blood on the bandages again, he realized. And the sheets. And his pillow, and his blankets. This was going to be a slow process, the King reflected, binding another sheet of gauze over the wound. Then, as an afterthought, he crossed the room and flicked the hunk of flesh and bone that was his finger into the trash. He'd need to get someone trained in that sort of thing to clean up that mess as well as the one he'd left on his sheets. Then he'd need to smuggle the supplies he needed out of the medical center and hope no one found him. He'd done it before, preferring his own half-educated care to the potential of that damn bird nagging him or requesting that he undergo yet another psychiatric evaluation. It was all a part of the process.
But it was his process. This was his choice, his action. He'd been crippled by the infernal stump of meat, and for a little while, he'd be crippled by its loss.
The wound would heal, with time. The flesh would stitch closed over the place where once, he'd had a fully-functioning finger, much as it was doing where his pinky had been. The skin would be tight there, even more white than it was over the rest of his body. His other fingers would seem weak for a few weeks, a few months, but then they would learn to grip just as tightly as they had before any of this had happened.
The only memory that he'd even had a ring and pinky finger on his left hand would be the scars, and even they would look natural next to the many that he already bore.
