….
She sat still, without motion, as the chill of the white table bit into her skin. It's displeasing, but nothing worth a second thought. He is holding her hand, like a child's hand, as if it were porcelain and could shatter at any instant. The scalpel is removed and she watches as the palm of her hand spurts blood, the veins pulsing nervously. The physical reaction is expected. The emotional reaction is limited.
She remembers meeting him, her attraction to him was immediate, and he later described it as 'the need to mate'. She had only nodded then, as it was she had had her dosing regulated by then. She never disagreed with him. He always told her that when he first met her, all he wanted to do was rip apart her in the most intricate way he could, take his time, experiment. At first she was hesitant, a woman filled to the brim with curiosity, she was curious as to what he would do. She also enjoyed the sadistic glint in his eye when he had first extended his invitation. Without much persuasion she followed him to his house, falling into his precise trap.
He is removing the skin from the palm, peeling slowly, his grin splitting his face in two. She finds she likes his smile, makes her want to follow him along his twisted path more diligently. The cog from his head is being twisted, once, twice, click. The blood is flowing quicker now, soaking his hands, he promptly ignores it.
"Hypothenar and Thenar peeled back…displaying increasing tremors throughout the Opponens Pollicis." He pulls out a utensil and slowly hooks a tendon, meeting her eyes, he pulls. She lacks the fear to scream, but the pain is evident as her free hand digs into itself. The tendon has come undone, hanging limply to the side; he sighs and hooks two, as if he were plucking guitar strings. He pulls swiftly, the tendons making a popping sound as they come undone. There is a moment where all is quiet, before she suddenly twists her head back and forth, biting her tongue, she won't scream, the last time she did he scolded her, stating it ruined his concentration. She didn't want to distract him.
"Physical reaction delayed, but prominent. Emotional reaction, neutral." He says as he grabs a syringe and a bottle, filled with an odorless, colorless, heavy liquid. He looks at her, with what she assumes is a mixture of seductive charm and slight pride.
"Remaining lucid throughout this is would be helpful, that shouldn't be a problem for you though." He says spinning in his chair for a moment. She's breathing heavily, a weight seemingly pressing on her chest. She takes a moment to respond, but releases a shaky breath.
"Anything for you Frank." She said slowly, she only calls him Frank when she wants him to go further, push her harder, push her past every ethical, and physical limit. He's never denied her that.
He's grinning again, this time in a sadistically childish excitement. "Now this," He points to the bottle of liquid. "Is Nitroglycerin, an extremely concentrated dose. Just a few drops on exposed skin causes extreme headaches. I wish to measure the amount of pain I can cause through direct contact of the blood stream, while you're already recovering from the shock and pain of your hand." He pushes the chair closer to her; wheel's making a squeaking noise as he slides across the floor. He places a hand on her head and begins to toy with her mess of brown hair. The color of dirt, but he's never minded. He pokes her temple roughly, causing her to cringe.
"I intend this drug to incapacitate you, but before that, tell me everything you experience. When you wake up you will immediately report to me the sensations felt throughout your unconsciousness." He turns from her and places the syringe in the liquid, extracting said drug. She looks at the back of his head, the white hair which she constantly wanted to touch, imagining it to be as soft as the feathers that were inside of her pillows. She looks down at her hand, the bleeding having slowed, pain having forced itself into a dull drumming, never leaving.
"Anything for you Frank." She whispers. If her emotions were still intact she would have felt ecstasy at how his smile came back into view, teeth displayed for extra fierceness. He grabs her wrist, pulling the bleeding hand to his cheek, rubbing it against his face for a moment before he poised the syringe just above one of the many exposed veins, pulsating violently in her hand. He pauses as if contemplating. The needle is there then, not an unfamiliar sensation. He injects the drug into her and for a moment nothing happens, but only a moment.
He pulls the needle from her palm as the tremors start. She's gripping her head, eyes wide in forced concentration as she attempts to make sense of the pain, the confusion, the utter madness. Her pupils search the floor, he's watching her closely. She screams suddenly as a wave of unmasked pain washes across her vision, her stomach forcing itself to her throat, acid on her tongue. He's saying something, so she forces herself to listen.
"What do you feel?" He asks casually, she knows this tone, he's enjoying this, if she could express emotion she would be glad. She is pleased when he is enjoying something. The question is simple, but leads off in so many directions, so she speaks honestly.
"White, it's white…I feel everything and nothing, it's like being thrown against a cliff by a wave you can't fight off. Like having water forced into your lungs." She's cries, attempting to make sense of the maddening sensations. She isn't prepared when he takes her injured hand, grabs the utensil, and begins to pull at more tendons.
"And now?" He asks curious.
Physical reaction was to be expected, as always, emotional reaction limited.
She screams, louder than before, the mix of different pain causing her to spiral down. He's watching her, and he expects a report, but her throat won't release anything except for screams and whimpers. But she's fine with it, he's happy. She can't explain what caused it but suddenly her eyelids are closed, and her head is falling forward, causing her entire body to fall to the side.
She is no longer screaming.
(…line break…)
Stein looks at her, not at all surprised when she was knocked into the unconscious. He turns from her and begins scribbling on a pad of paper diligently, going into detail when discussing the very manner in which he removed the tendon's from her palm. Said tendons are now lying beneath a microscope, where Stein had placed them only moments ago. In his report he doesn't mention how he craves her screams; how he loves the way she says his name, practically demanding that he torture her until she falls into madness with him. No, he never mentions that, to personal.
He looks at her, gingerly pulling her injured hand him; the bleeding subsided to a minor trickle. He places his hand on his cheek, where her blood is drying and cracking. He grabs a needle and thread, places them to the side as he first assaults the wound with rubbing alcohol. Physically she jerks in her sleep, but she says nothing. He grins as he begins to suture, the same type of suture as the stitched scars which line his body.
The room is hot with blood and breath, so he pulls off his lab coat, revealing his toned abdomen, hidden behind a black shirt. He is done with the stitches, now all he has to do is waiting. He sits still for a moment, before he gets up and places his body next to hers, not close enough to touch, but not out of arms reach. He breathes in her scent, enjoying the sensation. He curls his arms about her waist, pulling the woman to him, not once thinking of the consequences.
The embrace isn't kind though, more possessive. His grin splits his face in two. He pulls off his glasses and places them off to the side. Lips next to her ear he smiles;
"I am going to tear you apart, my Junko."
If she were conscious, her reply would've merely been: Anything for you Frank.
(…line break…)
She never weeps for herself; she doesn't know how one might. She looks upon her being as Stein does; accounting herself as an experimental subject to be observed and noted; and even within her, when some small part of her rebelled with the tiny attempts at moments of sorrow or fear, there were two discourses: one which cried, and one which recorded that cry without compassion; one intelligence which wished warmly for an embrace' and the other which did not grant it and did not speak, but observed, watchful, hands folded, inactive, and pen at the ready.
If one massy eye regarded her coldly from behind her back, it was her own.
The pain in her head woke her up. A startling soreness assaulted her every muscle, causing her to release gentle grunts as she sits up, eyes lidded, glancing around the room. She is alone, her only company a pad of paper on which she is to write her experiences, and next to it a bottle, filled with Phencyclidine, or as Stein calls it 'angel dust'. With a practiced weariness she plucks the bottle from its resting place. She measures out the desired amount, and with little care shovels the drug onto her tongue. She knows the detachment will take time to come back into effect, so she goes to the pad of paper, and starts writing.
She remembers asking him about color, and of what it consisted; and he told her that color-brown, red, green- resides in the eye of the beholder; that it does not in here in the object itself, any more than pain dwells in the needle. She didn't question his answer. She never did.
She's finished writing, by now the dust has begun its effect, she's used to it. She wanders out of the operating room, heading instead to the small almost cupboard like room where the majority of the books are kept. She trails her fingers across the titles and picks one at random, opening it to the last chapter. She never starts at the beginning. Everything's more interesting when put backwards.
(…line break…)
He spins and she watches, entranced by the whirlpool like motion. He stops abruptly and cocks his head at her; he grabs the bolt protruding from his skull and twists until a familiar click is heard.
"Junko?" Stein asks his gaze heavy on her. She's tracing her eyes over his scar, but looks up when he says her name.
"Dr.?" She asks voice only mildly curious. She's lost the need to call him Frank. Stein seems to contemplate for a moment before he continues, sliding forward in the chair until he's up next to her. "Up for another experiment?" He asks after a moment. She nods and lets out a small grunt.
"Anything for you Dr." She replies, voice neutral. He's standing then, pushing her against the table, fitting himself snuggly between her legs. She merely blinks.
"I'd like to stress your body, then when it's at the point of breaking, I'm going to send it teetering over the edge…I'd like to drag you down into madness, if only for a moment." He continues casually as he pulls the bandage wrap on her palm off, causing her to wince. She looks up at him, interest appearing on her face.
"And how are you going to stress my body?" She asked after a moment. Stein played with the buttons of her shirt. "I plan on causing you a great deal of sexual excitement, then a great deal of physical pain. With your body in its current condition, and the drugs running through your veins, I'd like to see how it copes with this great an amount of concentrated stimuli." He's pulling at the buttons now, revealing white pink scars, swirling across her chest. All his doing.
She's silent, before finally she replies simply. "Anything for you Frank."
Sooner than she was prepared for, his lips have found hers, pressing himself flush against her. She tenses, before she uncertainly plucks his glasses off. For a moment his eyes zero in. Just a moment before, a rare smile had masked Stein's simmering intent; and the fire of insanity flared in his eyes as he struggled to overcome the emotions boiling within. The operating room went quiet, deathly quiet.
She's on her back and he's on her, they're like that for hours, eyes staring intently at one another. Moans of pleasure emit from her in strings, followed quickly by screams and groans. He moans silently into his shoulder throughout it all, he has to focus, remember her reactions to everything. He can't deny though, how he enjoys the way she squirms beneath his body, the way she wraps herself around him, even with the scalpel threatening her very existence.
For much longer than either of them originally expected they are pressed against one another's skin, and after not much longer she's gone quiet, her body having been physically spent, she's fallen into sleeps embrace. Using this to his advantage he is on her again, poising the scalpel below her breasts, pulling it lower.
She doesn't move at all throughout his procedure and for that he is grateful, he doesn't want to mess up.
Once he's concluded his experiment, blood soaking his coat, a new scar awaiting her when she wakes, he steps back and admires her once more. Allowing his eyes to travel over her current lack of dress, he cannot help but suppress a bit of a shudder as he recalls every cry she made, every shiver that went through her when he touched her.
Suddenly he's grinning, splitting his face in two. He hopes that he can repeat this experiment at some point.