Stumbling to the front door of their apartment, she stops, waiting. Should she enter? The heavy glass bottle she was carrying is gone, liquid courage drained, taking over her grey matter, making her listless.
She's probably there.
Finding her keys, she quietly unlocks the door, stepping across the threshold into the place she should be the furthest away from in this state. She remembers to take her shoes off, distracted by the form on the couch not four feet away.
The old carpet is stiff beneath her bare feet; toes curling, feeling the timeworn dirt scrape at them, she slowly moves in front of the couch. Her head is pounding, but her sleeping form makes it a dull caress of the inner skull.
She looks so beautiful, eyes closed, hair mussed and gorgeous, nose crinkling, as if she can sense her filthy thoughts. The things she wants to say are trapped in her lungs, chained deep down, never leaving. The breaths she takes aren't enough when she sees her like this.
Her ribs threaten to snap with need; need for her.
She suddenly feels something in her pants, sparking a feeling she knows she shouldn't be having at the moment.
Glancing down she sees her own hand, past the barrier of worn elastic, making her freeze. When did she unbutton her pants?
She feels something scratch at the base of her skull, oozing forward, seeping into the layers of her brain. The feeling is sickening.
She feels insane.
She feels out of control.
Her blood stings, rushing fast through shot veins, hot and thick. Her eyes burn, vessels worn and tears flowing freely. What lies in front of her only excites her more, scratching at the surface of some sick wet dream she knows she shouldn't be having.
She wants to wear her skin. Pull her arms through and have her as close as possible. Tear her way inside and feel the velvet muscle underneath, the softest warmth she knows. The warmth only she can provide.
Tenderness is something she no longer feels in this state, discarded like the shame that was taken from her so long ago. Stability is close; she knows it's close when she finds her like this. Somehow she doesn't want to leave.
She wants to taste her skin. Discover what lies beneath the layers of steel. Slip inside and stay for a short while. Perhaps a long while if she'll allow.
She wants inside, inside, inside.
She wants her forgiveness, her safety, her heart.
Wiping her mess on her pants and buttoning them back up, she puts the clean hand on her face, trembling almost uncontrollably. She makes a serene portrait, untainted by her own slimy thoughts. Grinding her teeth, she brushes some hair out of her face, her own eyes still leaking.
Her bones are shaking.
A burning in the pit of her stomach begins, the type of burn that tells her to pull away, quickly, before this gets even more out of hand. She can't have this. She can't. No matter how loud her blood sings.
She notices her collarbone is showing, breaths becoming more and more shallow the more she allows her eyes to drink in. She wants to scrape her teeth there, taste her pulse, keep it for herself.
The sound is deafening.
I'm so selfish.
Finally standing, she makes her way to the bathroom down the hall, shutting the door and sitting in the empty tub, not bothering to turn on the lights. Her vision starts to sway again, her thoughts filled to the brim with her.
It's the right thing to do, after all. What she wants is damaged. What she wants is broken. What she wants is adrift in a cemetery of cracked ideals.
She can't have it.
She thinks of her hair, thick and full, flowing down her back when she cooks breakfast for them. She thinks of her eyes, blue and bright, crinkling at the ends when she finds something particularly funny. She thinks of her feet, small and feminine, curled up on the couch when she reads for hours on end.
Putting her hands in her hair, she tears at her scalp, trying to breathe. Her throat threatens to burst with liquid regret, choking her airways. Tilting her head back, she closes her eyes, images of her burned into the lids. She feels the remorse climbing from the pit of her stomach.
Her smile invades her mind, going behind the borders, unwillingly, and the sickness is kept at bay. She wants her again. Swallowing at the sudden dryness in her throat, she tries to move, unsuccessful.
Sighing, she lets herself be basked into her familiar fantasies, falling freely into self-induced purgatory, alone in the dark.
She tastes her, there. Every inch of her. She feels her hot skin against her own, letting herself be set aflame, burning to ash. She finds her, there. Eyes burning holes into her soul. She opens her flesh and slips inside, delicious warmth engulfing her. She trusts her, there. Their tangled legs, gentle touches and hitched breaths blinding her, quaking her bones.
I'm so selfish.
Snapping her eyes open, she feels the air has shifted. Her sickness has passed, for the time being. Trying to stand, she completes the task, albeit catching herself from falling a few more times than necessary.
Stepping out of the tub and finding her way to the door, she smells the shift she felt earlier. Tea. The guilt claws at her sternum. Filling the open wounds with a poisonous sting. It burns her to the core.
Making her way to the kitchen, she sees her over the stove, trying to keep a yawn at bay. She must sense her, because she turns as soon as the first step on cold tile is heard.
Her collarbone isn't showing anymore.
"Ryuko? I didn't hear you come in; when did you get back?"
Her smooth voice calms the irregular beating of her heart. She can't speak at this point, knowing she's too far away for that. She opts to stare, hoping the silence will convey her problem.
She smiles, then. She knows enough to act. She takes slow, meaningful steps, as if afraid to scare her away. What a joke.
She takes her hand, fingers shy, always handling physical contact like some fragile thing, and leads her down the hall to their bedroom, slowly, like thick molasses dripping from thousands of feet above their heads.
Selfish. Selfish. Selfish.
She drinks in the curve of her spine as she turns and tells her to get into bed. Her eyes never leave her form, always watching, always vigilant.
"Ryuko," she lets out a chuckle, "you need to lie down. You're ridiculously wasted right now."
Wasted? Is that what brings her dark thoughts crashing forward? It's more of a wasteland. No one is here. She wants to scream, don't leave. Please don't leave. Don't leave her alone in this place.
The high she felt hours ago is fading. She's crashing. She can't do this.
"Sa...tsu...ki..."
Her voice betrays her. She's caved. She needs her. She's seventeen again and drowning in a sea of self-inflicted sorrow and pain and she needs her big sister.
The concern that flashes in Satsuki's eyes makes her want to confess her sins. Let her burn at the stake. Pierce her lungs and let the air spring free, never to return.
"Ryuko?"
She swallows, feet threatening to give under her sudden weight, but stays silent; afraid she'll spill more than her guts if she opens her mouth.
A cool hand finds her face, and suddenly she's buried in the person she desperately wants more than anything she's ever fathomed. Her unsteady hands stay at her sides; afraid they'll obtain minds of their own and wander the Promised Land without her permission.
She breathes in her hair, feels it against her face, soft and light. She's drowning again. She opens her eyes and sees her throat, mere inches away. She feels her mouth water at the sight.
In the onslaught of sensations, she hears her voice again, calling her back to reality.
"You must be further gone than I thought. Let's get you in bed."
She's gently pushed onto the mattress, eyes beginning to glaze from overuse. Shifting them, she sees the smile above her, blissfully unaware. Satsuki presses a kiss to her forehead, leaving the room for an unknown amount of time.
I'm so greedy.
She knows her feelings won't be dormant in the morning, alcohol drained from her pours. They'll stay there until she's six feet under, and even then she'll never let the foul secret pass her teeth, no matter how hard they cut at the roots of her gums.
She stares at the ceiling until Satsuki returns, desperate to feel her hands in her own again. She won't get the opportunity tonight, though. Satsuki only wakes up like this when the past catches up with her in the night, shaking her awake, making her frown for days afterwards.
Eyes half-lidded now, she continues to stare at her sister's form, hands twitching to soothe the wounds only she can see.
Her crest of emotions subsides for the evening, leaving her in a strange state of unrest. All she can do is exist, nothing more, nothing less. Her eyes slip shut, thoughts taken over by the silence of slumber.
She'll never have her.
I'm a monster.