So, as you might have noticed, the title and the first few lines are taken directly from the manga. I couldn't think of a good title. And Jizabel's thoughts help to set the mood (in my opinion.)
Disclaimer: Only in my wildest crack daydreams do I own Godchild.
Warning: This story contains Yaoi (Sexually explicit stiuations between men,) incest (Said men are related,) rape (Sex is not consensual), and torture. (If you don't know what that means, then you shouldn't be reading this)
If you're too much of a weanie to deal with these concepts, then click the back button. I won't tell a soul, I promise.
You have now been properly warned. Any mental scarring from reading this is entirely your own fault.
Let me know what you think.
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I no longer hear anything.
Yes…
In fact, it's a relief.
This searing pain that burns my body.
Much like the feeling I got when I buried my face in the intestines of that stranger.
That was when I first learned that other people possessed the same warmth on the inside as my ugly self…
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1. First Awakening: In Which We Discover the Difference Between Love and Pain
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The cooled metal chains feel good against his skin.
At first they were freezing, but they seemed to warm up when the pain began.
The sound of the whip tearing through his skin has dulled and faded until he no longer hears it, no longer feels it, no longer cares.
The pain is still there of course, but then, it never really goes away.
Like the last smoldering embers in a fireplace, it burns beneath the surface, ready to blaze into life to meet the flow of blood.
When something never leaves you, you get used to it, you crave it, and you make sure to attract the attention of someone who can provide a spark to call it forth.
The pain comforts him.
It proves that Father still loves him, still pays attention to him.
He loves Father.
He loves the pain that Father brings.
He loves the scars that Father creates.
The only thing he hates is the blood that flows down his back and colours the white bed-sheet tied around his waist.
He hates it despite its delectable warmth.
It stains.
A stain that never goes away.
A stain that remains behind his eyes to haunt him whenever he closes them.
Purity defiled.
Innocence shattered.
A lamb's fur turned red with the tears that came from a wound.
He doesn't know where the blood is coming from.
It might not even be from him.
It could be a stranger's blood.
It could be Snark's blood…
The thought of Snark makes him want to vomit.
Bile comes up his throat, trying to escape.
He chokes it back down with a gasp, and tears start to drip down his cheeks.
He hasn't cried since that day.
He hasn't cried since pieces of his best friend spewed out of his mouth and onto the floor.
Onto the ugly brown carpet that he hated.
Until then, he never knew why Father picked that horrible colour.
Then the blood started to dry.
He understood many things that day.
They numbed him to the sadness.
Numbed him to the suffering.
Numbed him to his insanity.
Numbed him to the difference between love and pain.
Love is pain.
Love is a whip.
Love is the fire that sears his body in response to the red warmth that covers it.
Love is the jagged pieces of metal that Father sometimes attaches to his whip to increase his love.
He loves it.
He doesn't understand why Cain hates it.
To think, Cain had been loved like this every night!
Such an honour!
Such joy!
Such rapturous pain…!
The distant sound of metal and leather striking flesh
(Striking his flesh.)
(Pouring his blood)
Stops, and a hand lands gently on his head before stroking his face, wetting itself with tears.
He instinctively starts to nuzzle his face against Father's hand.
Father seems to recognize the affectionate gesture as borrowed from the lamb he slaughtered.
The hand withdraws, and then takes a hold of his hips and pushes upward, positioning him so that he's bent forward like a triangle, the edge of the church pew digging into his stomach, and his arms stretched out under him.
Father slowly pulls the bed-sheet off of him, exposing him completely before using it to clean the blood off his back, paying no heed to stinging wounds.
He hears the bed-sheet land on the floor, and then Father's wet hand starts stroking his back before moving to cup his buttocks.
He shivers at the touch.
He's never tried to evade Father's touch before.
But then, Father's never touched him like this before.
"Don't move" Father whispers, his voice thick and heavy.
The hand moves between his legs and starts rubbing his thighs.
He shudders as the hand climbs higher.
No-one's ever touched him there.
He doesn't want any-one to.
Not even himself.
More tears start to leak from the corners of his eyes.
He feels a sharp smack land on his buttocks, and he gasps more out of confusion than pain.
Father walks around him, then bends down and whispers in his ear.
His breath smells like blood.
Smells like Snark…
"I said, don't move."
The words are accompanied by a slimy warmth on the side of his face, similar, and yet somehow different from the tears staining his flesh.
He raises his head slightly, and Father lifts it the rest of the way before pressing their mouths together.
More tears run down his face as Father's tongue pushes deeper into his mouth.
He's so hopelessly confused…
The good pain, the pain he likes, the pain of love, leaves him like this, like a child.
He doesn't understand what's going on; just that he wants it to stop.
He just wants the delicious pain from the cat-o'-nine tails.
He doesn't want Father to touch him like this.
He doesn't want any-one to touch him like this.
He doesn't want any-one to touch him at all.
But Father doesn't care what he wants.
He's proving that as he kisses his son the way he used to kiss Mother.
Kissing him the way he should only kiss Mother.
'Do you kiss Cain like this?'
He thinks, 'Is that why you don't want me to kill him?'
Father's tongue retreats from his mouth, and the last of his tears are of relief.
But then he feels the hand stroking his backside again, and a finger forces its way into him.
He gasps in pain.
This pain is …
Different, a different kind of love.
A love that he doesn't want.
It's hard to breath.
His voice has abandoned him, he can't scream, can't talk, can't even whisper an objection.
All he can do is whimper in pain and fear as his body is violated.
He only finds enough air to scream as something bigger penetrates him, washing away the last of his innocence with a gush of blood.
Tears drip onto the floor as he screams in agony.
His body contorts as much as it can beneath Father's weight.
This is the worst kind of punishment, the worst kind of defeat, the worst kind of shame; the worst kind of Death…
The scream cuts off as he vomits onto the floor, trying to vomit up his shame, his defeat.
But all that comes up is blood-flecked bile.
He tries to close his eyes.
He doesn't want to see it, he doesn't want to see anything, but finds that he can't.
Can't stop staring at the scarlet specks amid the foul liquid.
One of Father's hands covers his eyes, one small mercy in this Hell, even as the other closes around his throat.
Father's movements grow stronger, more frantic.
Something hot and disgusting shoots through him, and Father howls above him, his voice laced with lust and satisfaction.
The frenzied movements slow to a stop, and then Father's weight is gone and his shackles are being unlocked.
He sobs in relief as Father pulls him back to his normal kneeling position, and then lets him slide to the blood-stained floor.
Then he feels Father's hand on the back of his head, and he's being pushed forward along the hard floor until he reaches the puddle of vomit.
'No' He thinks as his eyes widen in realization.
'No. You can't' But Father can, and he does, wordlessly humiliating him again, forcing him to lap up his own vomit.
It tastes awful, tastes like blood, like Death, like Snark…
He wants to retch again, but Father's hand is just ever so lightly grasping his throat.
Only when the floor is clean does Father let him go.
He curls up sobbing under a pew, expecting more torture, and knowing that he can't handle any more.
But it never comes, and Father is gone when he looks up again.
He can only think of a single word as the tears once again start to trickle down his face.
Misericorde.
Short sword of mercy.
A blade used only to take those bleeding away their lives out of their misery.
He's miserable, he's bleeding, he's broken and useless.
He wants to die.
No…
He needs to die, to be free of this torment.
He needs a Misericorde.
And someone to wield it.
The image of a dagger slips through his thoughts until he closes his eyes and is still.
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2. Second Awakening: In Which the Past and the Present Are Mixed in a Medium-Sized Bowl and Baked at Somewhere Between Four-Hundred Forty-For Point Six and Four-Hundred Forty-Five Degrees Fahrenheit for Two Hours.
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He wakes up to the feeling of hot breath on his face.
He almost screams, thinking it's Father come to torture him again.
But it's not - it's Mikaila, the living corpse.
She's carrying her basket with her, and he shudders, praying that she won't open it while at the same time wishing she would.
Apparently, wishes are more dependable than prayers, since she flicks open the small clasp and lets the spiders within swarm out, heading straight towards him.
He freezes with fear as they start to crawl over him.
No-one knows this…
(Except Father, Father knows everything, Father creates everything, Father destroys everything…)
But he's afraid of spiders, afraid of the sinister tickle of their long slender legs as they move over his body.
Afraid of the sudden urge to move as he felt them settle on him, ready to bite should he even blink.
Father had created this scenario when he was small, and had forced him to play it out again and again, never knowing whether it would be this time that the spiders finally decided to bite.
His mouth is open, and one of the deadly arachnids finds shelter in the warm, but suddenly all too dry cavern.
It climbs over his teeth and makes itself comfortable on his tongue, making it clear that it's not going any-where any-time soon.
The rest however, keep crawling, keep torturing him.
He has a sudden urge to swallow, but he knows what will happen if he does.
Isn't that what you wanted?
Something within him says.
'No, not like this.' He thinks.
'Never like this. . .'
Never like the feeling of acid spreading through your veins, burning them.
She's laughing.
His creation, his monstrosity, is laughing as his blood simultaneously boils and freezes.
Of your skin rotting away.
The flesh that their legs touched went numb, dead.
It might not even still be there.
He might be no more than a skeleton crawling with spiders.
Of the way they settled down and were still before they bit you.
The one in his mouth has been moving at least slightly all this time.
Now it's stopped.
It's perfectly still
It's going to bite at any moment.
The calm before the storm.
The calm before Death.
The spider on his tongue jumps suddenly, and he flinches reflexively, expecting a sharp and fatal pain that never comes.
Instead, the tiny monster crawls out, and then away from him as its companions do the same, withdrawing into the wicker basket in response to some mental signal from their mistress.
She makes a sound of disgust and hurries away as he shivers in the dim light, dully registering a warm liquid soaking his hips and thighs.
He doesn't care.
He doesn't care that he's naked or that he lost control of his bladder in front of one of his creations.
He doesn't…
Doesn't…
Darkness comforts him as the thought trails off into the same black abyss.
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3. Third Awakening: In Which a Large Chunk of Time is Lost
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His skin burns in the places where Cain's flesh met it.
The seductive burning sensation blurs the line between pleasure and pain.
He wants to stop Time so that he can savour the sensation for-ever.
He wants to tear his skin off to get rid of it.
The ripped dress lies in tatters around his ankles, bits of petals and fabric stick to his blood-stained face, as well as the long strands of a stranger's discarded hair.
The metal collar, an almost exact - if slightly bigger – duplicate of the one he watched being fixed around the pickpocket boy's throat, cuts unto his neck.
He puts a hand up to his neck and feels wetness where the collar's edge digs into his flesh.
He can barely breathe, even now that the constricting corset is no longer binding the round balls of fabric to his flat chest.
He shudders as he remembers the events that had unfolded during the course of the evening.
Starting from when Father had found him and cleaned him off, showing him the warmth and kindness that he'd only shown when, as a child, he'd stopped breathing.
When he'd given him the crucifix that he'd left sticking out of Riffael's chest.
He stares at the frozen, lifeless eyes in his palm.
They're sitting in his hand with the irises down, their colour hidden in a pool of their owner's blood.
He doesn't even know whose eyes they were.
He'd just found them in his hand after he fled the burning building where the revelers were trapped.
The thought of fire makes the burning sensation more intense, more unbearable.
It makes him want to scream.
Even if he has to slit his throat to get the collar off, he has to scream.
He stumbles forward; landing on the hard cot he sleeps on, and feels a sharp pain in his free hand as it lands on something that glints.
He picks it up, grimacing as the movements widen the wound, but reluctant to put down the eyes.
His eyes widen in shock as he realizes what it is.
It's his wish.
His prayer.
His Death.
His Misericorde.
Tied around the handle is a red ribbon with a note attached.
A note from Father.
I have captured Cain.
Thus, you are no longer of any use to me.
Any-one else in Delilah would have been killed slowly and painfully had they done what you did . . .
But you are my son, and you deserve better.
Here is a present in return for your services tonight.
Do with it as you please.
I will not miss you.
Card-Master
As he turns the blade over in his hands, wetting it with his blood, the feeling flares into Life, demanding attention from the dagger.
It receives it.
The blade gleams in the darkness as it cuts away or merely scars beyond recognition the skin that had felt Cain's drunken touch.
His brother's face flickers in and out of his mind with each burst of pain and warmth.
He loved feeling warm…
Cooled detachment: His mind was on something else as the mysterious man whose face was carefully obscured by a large hat had introduced a lovely new girl to him and insisted in a deep, rough voice that they dance.
He practically skins his hand, cutting open the flesh where Cain's lips had met it again and again as screams sound in his head.
Intrigue: As they began to dance, he had noticed something familiar in the carefully painted features, but was most interested by the way she licked her lips as she stared into his eyes, hypnotized by the way the green masked the gold beneath.
Red spills from his shoulder and waist where Cain's fingers had burned them, even through the cloth.
He's upside-down as the sky rains blood.
Rains his blood.
Flirtatiousness: He let his hand stray over to her arm while they talked about nothing.
It lingered there for a while, and found its way back over the course of the evening, though she did nothing to encourage it.
His arm is criss-crossed with stinging liquid ribbons, mostly in the shape of crosses that almost seemed to be upside-down…
Desire: A spark of it had appeared in his eyes as he none-too-subtly studied her form.
Whatever liquour Moon had slipped into his glass was starting to take effect.
He moved closer to her as his words began to slur, sliding into each other without pausing.
His thigh is mutilated the worst.
Chunks of it are cut out entirely in the shape of a handprint, and deep gashes pour his Life onto the floor.
He doesn't know how much longer he has to live, just that he, without a doubt, will end his Life in this room.
Will bleed his way into Hell…
Lust: As the liquour robbed him of his polite demeanor, he had started to touch her more than was proper.
She couldn't scream, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but feel his fingers burning her skin as she watched bloodlust start to cloud Moon's eyes.
She'd warned her about what would happen if he moved.
Blood starts to trickle from within his open mouth as he slices shallowly into his chest and stomach.
The burning sensation is fading, but he's still not dead…
Nostalgia: She remembered the conversation she'd had with Moon earlier.
.:I'll kill everyone and save you for last:.
'Isn't that what I wanted?'
.:I'll cut out every one of your organs and tear them to pieces:.
'You cause pain. I crave it.'
.:I'll rip out his eyes and force you to watch as I burn them in front of you:.
'You wouldn't dare.'
.:I swear I will:.
'Card-Master will be angry.'
.:I'll do it, so help me God:.
'God is dead.'
The blade cuts his lips as it slides past them.
His mouth fills with blood and pain as he spits the lump of flesh that used to be his tongue onto the ground.
The world is starting to fade…
Disgust: He had recoiled back in horror when his probing fingers discovered the truth about "her" body.
Realized what she would look like with a pair of glasses with empty silver frames. . .
This is it.
The End.
This is his time to die.
But a hand catches his wrist and stops the knife as it's about to plunge through his chest.
The collar is being unlocked, and suddenly he can breathe again.
He looks behind him, and sees Father.
And then he's being pulled backwards into Father's lap.
The blade is being pulled back towards him.
It keeps going after he stops.
Keeps going even as the blood spills from his mouth.
Even after the point touches Father's chest, it keeps going.
Keeps going.
Keeps going…
It keeps going until both of them are dead and steeping in their own blood.
It never stops.