Author's Note:
Disclaimer: Heavy Rain belongs to Quantic Dream.
Rating: M for explicit adult themes, drug abuse, violence, suicidal themes, strong language and nudity. Yeah!
Summary: He's left in the back alley to die. She's planning suicide. Both attempts fail and their lives go on, headed in different directions. But fate hates to be outsmarted and the abyss is waiting patiently for its promised prey.
Additional warning: Yes, there will be a plot in this story in later chapters, but before, there'll be a certain amount of smut. Flame me. I like smut. Ah and yes, this is a short chapter story.
Idea: Idea? Seriously? Okay. First: My car has just broken down. Second, a doctor just cut my upper leg and sent electric impulses + stress hormones to my heart. Third: because of second, every walk outside to smoke a cigarette has turned to a walk of pain. Conclusion: I'm angry. So, here's a dark fic. Enjoy.
Black Rain
"There is no such things as bravery; only degrees of fear."
(John Wainwright)
Chapter One: Overture
Charlottesville, Friday, 5th November 2010
This is the way he dies. Beaten up until his screams turned to silent groans. Until his desperate resistance turned to helpless squirms. Until his aching body rested bleeding on the cold, solid ground. It is winter, in a shitty back alley of Charlottesville and the few people which passed on the main street either didn't hear his calls for help, or didn't want to get in trouble. He believes the second, since one or two actually stopped, but then rushed on, as if they had only heard the meows of a straining cat.
Well, the neighborhood surely doesn't look like "civil courage" is on the top priority list of the citizens around.
He tries to guess the time that has passed since his epic fail. The pain in his limps has already turned to indifferent numbness, caused by the cold and the blood – his blood – is covered under a small line of new snow. Maybe one or two hours.
One or two hours and a dozen cries for help without any effect except that is throat is now sore and terribly dry.
Not that it matters much. He is going to die, right here, right now. The fifth victim of the Charlottesville rapist. The only differences are: he's not blonde and female, he's not under twenty and he still has his pants on.
Gladly. No one wants to die with the most intimate area revealed.
With a last attempt of bravery, he tries to rise from the dirty ground, but the only part of his body obeying to the command is his left foot. His right leg won't move an inch and even thinking about it sends sharp signals of pain through his body. He tries to turn his head and catch a glimpse of the damage, but his vision is too blurry and the darkness too thick.
His gaze turns to the streetlights on the main road and he wonders if he can possibly crawl over there, the thought a clear evidence of his desperation. To crawl meant to give up all his precious pride. The memory of his mother haunts him while he weighs up his pride against his life. 'Be proud of yourself when you have achieved something, but never let pride stop you, Norman. Ribbons and medals won't be your resurrection from death.'
Well, if he wanted to get some ribbons or medals in his future, he would have to stay alive.
Slowly, he tries to drag his body over the dirty ground. The pain in his chest explodes, near to his ribcage and he stops right after the first move. So, no luck with that idea, either. The bastard must have broken two or three of his ribs with his brass knuckles.
It shouldn't have happened. He had had him, cornered, right here, his gun pointed at his fucking head. He had already had his handcuffs ready to send him to jail…
And then, everything had gone wrong. The ARI had betrayed him. No, not the ARI. The triptocaine. The ARI had helped him in his chase, had helped him to find him. The ARI was innocent. It had been the drug, the stupid, stupid drug, the blue powder in the phial.
'It's just a sort of medication. It helps you to relax after using the ARI. Helps your brain to process all the information the ARI provides.'
Yeah. Just a sniff against the side effects of the ARI. Sadly, nobody had given him a remedy against the side effects of the drug.
He remembers the flyers on college, the white ones with the big, red letters on them: Drugs will kill you. Be smart.
Well, he has been outsmarted.
He wonders when they will find him here. And who will find him. Probably the garbage collection, since there's a big container right in front of him. It smells mouldy.
He smells sweaty, bloody and afraid. Though the fear is not as constant as before. Maybe because his mind is all foggy now and his eyelids are so heavy, actually, way too heavy to keep them open.
Once more he tries to shift his body forward, but all he gets is another painful complaint from his ribcage and his leg.
Finally, he closes his eyes and rests his head on his right arm. Time to give in to the inevitable truth: it is over.
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