Warning – Contains swearing, alcohol consumption and self-injury.
6 years on from when I first wrote chapter 1 (as a one shot) I find myself randomly reading it and inspired to add another chapter. Oh and maybe more. Possibly enough to make it a short ficlet of the 1+2 variety. Anyway, I have done a few changes to chapter 1 as well. So I hope you like it.
A huge thank you to all of the stories that I have read over the years that have inspired me so much.
"FUCK!" I banged my head hard against the seat in Death scythe's cockpit. How could I have been so stupid!
The ruined OZ base's flames flickered in the viewer, its glow dancing across my skin.
Civilians... There weren't supposed to be any civilians around here for miles. It was supposed to just be an OZ Virgo production base, soldier's ONLY. How was I supposed to know that they were having a school trip in order to recruit new members! How was I supposed to know that they would be there! They weren't supposed to be there!
I banged my head again, harder this time. So hard that I saw small stars before my eyes. The screams of the children echoed in my mind. Memories of Father Maxwell and Sister Helen... The screaming. So many screams! My own terrified screaming deep within. Oh God, truly The God of Death had risen today!
I could feel the arid smoke outside fill my lungs. I could smell and taste the skin of the children and their teachers as it boiled and charred. Erasing their identities and destroying their futures. OZ was destroyed here but the cost was too much.
The doctors would have said that they were necessary casualties in order to achieve peace. But what good is a peaceful world with no one there to live in it? To run around and play in it; to exist in a world where they wouldn't have to be afraid?
Slowly I turned Deathscythe and programmed it to return to the safe house that I was sharing with the other pilots. They would know about this soon enough. My mistake would be all over the news. I could almost feel their disapproving and hateful glares at me. Here was something else that I had fucked up and it wouldn't be the first time either. And of course, they were all better pilots than me. They would never have made a mistake like this. No, it would be better that I had recovered from this travesty before I had to face them. Bile rose in my throat and I swallowed it back, wincing at the horrible burning taste. There was only one thing to do now...
I had promised Sister Helen, so many years ago, that I wouldn't stop until I had achieved peace. That was her dying wish. No matter how many casualties there had to be, I could not give up... Not yet. They would all go to heaven whereas I would go to hell. Once a peace was achieved, be it a hollow one or not, I could do what I wished with my life, even though there really was nothing left of it. Now the guilt and emotional turmoil were driving me insane. How many people would have to be sacrificed for peace?
How many more people did I have to kill? How many more had to die?
My body moved on autopilot, guiding Deathscythe to his temporary home. Slowly exiting and walking to my on-suite bedroom. This tends to be a sort of ritual for me most times after a mission. After all, something usually goes wrong. Someone always dies. There is no such thing as a mission without incident. The other pilots are either asleep or out fighting their own missions. Their being used as pawns, used by the lords of plague, by our doctors and masters. Either way, they wouldn't care, would they?
They always say that military comrades were supposed to be like a family. But we're not comrades. We just happened to be five teenagers that were all trained to use the same weapon and kill the same enemy. It was just coincidence that we thought it would be safer if we all co-habited for the moment. Of course, Quatre would disagree. But then again, he was too kind. Kindness in our line of business is a weakness though.
My room just happened to be on the far side of one of Quatre's many family estates here on Earth. It suited us fine though. Isolated from everyone, and hidden from the world. Here we each had our own space along with a shared living room and kitchen. If we wanted to be alone with our demons, thankfully, we could be. After all, we were a house full of loners really.
Stepping into my bedroom, I threw off my sweaty, smoke stained clothes, leaving me clad in just my black boxer shorts and grabbed one of the many bottles of Rum I had stored in the bottom of my wardrobe along with a small black bag that I also grabbed, feeling relaxed somewhat as soon as a touched it.
Pulling the cork with my teeth, I took a deep swig. The alcohol burning the back of my throat to leave warmness behind that settled in my stomach. So what? Alcohol just happens to be one of my many ways to cope. It's not my favourite and I can't do it often. It muggles the brain and blurs my vision. Not the best way to battle. But alcohol is cheap and accessible. Somehow it always manages to dull the pain in my heart and silence the screams of the innocent.
Slowly I made my way over to the adjoining bathroom and locked myself in before sliding down the back of the door to the floor, resting the bottle on the floor on one side and the bag containing my treasures on the other. The icy coldness hit me, goosebumps spreading across my skin, making the scars that covered my skin all the more visible under the harsh fluorescent light that flooded the bathroom.
You would think that these scars are just the result of many years as a street rat, then training and the eventual working as a soldier. But if you look closer you would see that perhaps they are just a little too perfect, just a little too straight and just a little too… self-inflicted.
A cut for every life that I have taken, and a cut for all the times when I feel like I am going to be swallowed by this darkness. It's doing this that helps me keep this promise to Sister Helen. Doing this helps me survive for just a little bit longer in order to complete my mission of peace. If I didn't then I'm sure I would have been dead long ago, after all, I don't deserve to live. Parting my skin with the use of a blade helps me cope with the pain... for now. Though to be honest it is doing nothing to soothe my soul anymore. And truthfully, drinking copious amounts of alcohol and cutting myself open are usually not a match made in heaven. Then again what would I know about heaven. I am bound for hell.
Taking a few more swigs of rum I gingerly reach over to pick up my bag and place it in my lap but as I do so I catch a glimpse of my arm and the scar tissue upon it. Usually, I don't look at them. But on an occasion like this, three gulps of rum aren't enough to make my mind go foggy enough to ignore them.
The first thing you notice is that they're white. Okay, I admit I am a creature of the night and rarely tan but these are so white that they contrast against my own skin. They come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. Some are thick, some are thin, some short and others long. The thicker ones, however, tend to be more raised and noticeable. This is where I have cut so deep and spread the skin so much, that puss has had to fill them and eventually stitch the skin together, there have been days too where I have pulled off the scabs just to see them bleed. They always bleed the best. Blood… It reminds me that I am still alive. Fascinated I raise my hand up to stroke them, drawing my finger over the most noticeable ones. Even now are as sensitive as the day that I inflicted them.
It's not just this arm, but the other matches in horrific symmetry. Even the tops of my arms have not escaped my self-destructive behaviour. Though to be honest people, from a distance, just think I have blotchy skin most of the time... If only they knew, or even cared enough to ask.
My legs, mainly my thighs are in a similar state. Covered by my boxers now, but I know that what lies beneath the black cotton is just as shocking and disgusting as the rest of my body. If I was a 'normal' person I would probably wonder why anyone would do this to themselves. But I'm not a 'normal' person and I know exactly why I do this. I know that there are plenty of people out in the world that do the same as I and I am not judging them. Everyone has their reasons and if it helps, it helps. I know that this helps me.
More rum and it's time to live up to the inevitable. I know I won't be able to relax until I press that cold hard metal against my skin. I haven't decided where yet. Never too near something where I might actually kill myself. I can't die yet... So the top of my left forearm will have to do for now.
The bag before me contains every blade I have ever used, except one. It's always best to have one hidden away for emergencies I find. The pocket knife that Solo gave me so many years ago is hidden deep inside Deathscythe's cockpit. Part of me knows that he would disapprove and the other that he would understand what the alternative would be if I didn't. Inside the bag is a treasure of all sorts of blades: knives, which tend to be quite clumsy and razor blades which are more controllable and easily hidden. Searching carefully through, I find a small white paper envelope containing a double-edged blade. It's brand new and glistening; a device that would easily destroy my skin if I let myself get that far.
Would I describe my skin as mutilated? I'm not quite sure… This is my body after all. What I do to it is no bodies business but my own.
A deep breath and...
Cut.
Another cut and then another.
Three long deep ravines along the skin of my upper arm. The skin is in shock, they're not even filling with blood yet. Enough cuts to count for the teachers but what about the innocent children. I don't know how many there were. There are just so many screams… So many voices… Some from the other times and some from this.
More cuts.
So many… Too many… It's hard to count them. There's too much blood to even try to.
My left arm feels dead. I cannot lift it.
More rum, then more cuts.
I need stitches for a lot of these.
Clumsily I stand up using my uninjured arm to support me. The blade left upon the blood-stained tiled floor. Turning the shower on to its highest setting I fall into the bottom of shower cubical curled up into a foetal position. Blood gushing from my arm, mixing with the water and diluting. Focusing on the pale pink liquid as it swirled around the plug hole I let my mind wander and be at peace for as long as I could. The beating of the shower almost silencing the children. Almost.
But I don't cry... Boys don't cry...