[Edited on January 11, 2017. A million thanks to Ice-Woman n AVG for proofreading.]
For the fifth time, Zim gave a listless kick to the empty plastic bottle. It tumbled across the sidewalk until its momentum ran out and the bottle halted inevitably not too many meters away, waiting for a sixth kick to keep on rolling down the path.
"Damn, filthy Earth," mumbled the alien in disguise, "I don't understand how pollution hasn't done its work yet." He kicked the bottle out of his way and continued to walk, his bitter, enraged eyes glaring at two hyperactive kids chasing each other on the other side of the street. The regular, cheery sight alone elicited a curt grunt from the back of his throat.
Almost two years of living in this hellish rock, and Zim still couldn't tolerate walking from the equally infernal school to his base.
The sickening loathsome smell, its stupid noisy humans... all Earth offered, every single thing, was completely useless and worthless. He craved the destruction and restoration of that hideous place with such massive greed that it burn sometimes.
But that wasn't a day for distracting fantasies and wishes. Daydreams could hold on, and Zim had to reach his base and devise another plan to bring down this planet for once and all.
Fake blue eyes fixed straight ahead and only ahead perhaps for a whole block, block and a half, until they spotted a familiar purple blur impossible to ignore on the opposite sidewalk.
Zim stopped dead in his tracks halfway down the path and rushed across the street without second thoughts, underestimating the presence of pedestrian crossings as he tended to do most times. He paid no heed to the screeching sound made by a blue car whose driver hit the brakes just in time to avoid an accident, and much less to the obscenity he may or may have not shouted.
"Little Gaz!" Zim called out, speeding up to catch with her pace when she didn't acknowledge him. "I thought you were dead or something," he tried again, trailing after her.
"Not now, Zim," came the monotonous, menacing response, her gaze never leaving that beloved GameSlave 2. She recognized his voice, but that didn't mean she'd pay attention.
Zim insisted nonetheless. "Wait, where have you been? You haven't assisted school for months!"
It looked like she did hear this time, because she paused the game and whipped around to face the alien, who almost bumped into her like a lost child. She sent him a piercing stare for it, and Zim realised the mistake of being closer than necessary, thus recoiled and lifted his arms defensively in case he needed to attack or take off running and screaming for help.
Of course, he wasn't afraid of her, oh no. She just happened to possess the power to... Intimidate, that was all.
"Before answering your idiotic question, could you tell my why you noticed my absence? It's not like we used to talk."
The alien shrugged. "Certainly not," he agreed indifferently, taking some seconds to think further. "But I did get used to watching your smelly brother having lunch with you by his side, and as I mentioned, you haven't been to that horrible institution for months."
The stare lingered. "I'm still in elementary school," Gaz explained dryly, no doubt implying that of this information, Zim should be keenly aware. "You are supposed to be one year older than me."
A feeling of inner-stupidity washed over Zim. He dropped his arms. "Oh." Stupid age gap detail.
Gaz raised an eyebrow and immediately understood the ending of their oh-so-riveting conversation. She spun on her heels and resumed the game. "See you next year, and hopefully not before," Gaz said in what Zim believed to be her most collected tone, then she proceeded to walk away.
And in brief, after watching her go, so did he.
~0~
". . .Reactivating."
Zim cried out as his PAK brought him back to consciousness through a fierce discharge. His body shook and fought violently to endure the electricity coursing up and down his spine, then went taut and shaky once those three everlasting seconds were over.
Curled up on cold floor and surrounded by perturbing obscurity, Zim found himself gasping for air until his breathing steadied and the dizziness drifted off. The loud buzzing died out to be replaced by deathly silence, and the metallic smell of blood hanging in the air filled his invisible nostrils to the point of triggering a wave of nausea. The unclearness did not vanish, but his confusion did, faster than normal.
Spitting the overflow of bitter saliva, Zim blinked repeatedly to adjust his vision, welcoming the usual patch of much more intense darkness in his left eye and the pain and humidity causing his body so much discomfort.
Zim released a humourless snort. He could picture everything perfectly without checking today. Minor wounds all over his limps and torso; a deeper, thicker gash on the side of his stomach; the pinkish fresh blood that kept trickling down his tattered invader uniform and pooled into a puddle underneath him, fueling the awkward sensation of sticky wetness. Broken claws. Two fractured fingers belonging to his right hand, those which hadn't healed properly since the harm was done. Each wound spoke for itself.
The guards sure had a nice time with him, for not even stretching seemed possible, and Zim didn't want to try either. Screw numbness. He knew that any attempt to move would only awake more pain. There were no consequences he couldn't foretell after so much time trapped down in this dungeon. Even if his notion of time had long got lost during his martyr stage, the way his body grew worked as some sort of internal clock, and from this era, he learnt how to avoid further pain.
Being silent, eating every piece of near-moldy food, not begging the sadist guards to stop the punishment, looking at them in the eye whenever they insulted him; holding back from crying in front of them... Not stretching more than necessary was solely a quarter-parter in this survival manual.
Experience was the key.
Zim had already tried refusing to eat in order to starve and die, had desperately asked them to stop ramming their fists into his face, to stop kicking him whenever he fell battered and panting to the ground. He had unforgivably begged them on his knees to stop slashing his skin open with knives and whips every time his legs faltered under him, had sobbed at wicked torture methods tested on him as if he were less than a guinea pig, and he had gone through the consequences. Lesson learned.
Complying, on the other hand, brought suffering his body could bear and nothing else. His strength would always end up completely ebbed away no matter how he behaved, just like today. But he prefered not being able to stand because of violent blows and slashes than because of some bloodthirsty guard brutally having his way with him.
The mere idea of such a traumatic event occurring for a second time brought bilis to his dry throat, made his insides twist into a tight, sickening knot. If Zim had to do something he'd never done before in order to elude being taken against his will, like holding his tongue and getting used to being inferior, then so be it.
After all, as hard to accept as it had been, he was inferior, much like any other criminal or traitor trapped down there. But Zim was an especial defect, according to the Tallest and Irken society, thus didn't deserve deactivation yet. Too bad, he'd always think, because deactivation would have been paradise in comparison to this.
Ah, if his voice hadn't been so worn-out, Zim would have let out the most ironic chuckle. Of course Red and Purple were completely aware of the relief a quick death meant. Holding him prisoner was surely more entertaining for them, and it was still more humiliating the fact that Zim could have got away unscathed, simply by stepping out of Irken Empire.
What a stupid mistake he had made, coming back to Irk empty-handed. The ex-invader had been warned and threatened, sometimes he believed that even advised by his Tallest, and he still had foolishly insisted on coming, on proving he was worth of taking part in his planet's oncoming missions. His idiocy knew no boundaries.
You should have stayed, the same repetitive laments would fill his secondary brain every time his malfunctioning PAK brought him back to consciousness. You should have listened to us, Red's mocking voice would whisper from behind Zim, pushing him one step closer to the edge on each occasion. You should have disappeared.
The only thing he could do so as not to go completely insane was remembering all those kind of moments he had always considered unimportant, awful nuisances such as GIR's insanity and obsession with food, the little bot's bone-crushing hugs accompanied by random high-pitched shrieks, the rivalry with Dib and the way he used to ruin plans, opportunities in which he had been staring at Gaz like a stalker.
He didn't even know if the siblings were alive. Did GIR still exist? Zim found solace in believing he had been turned off, or fixed to be under the command of a qualified invader, a competent master. Since Irken were accustomed to re-use from PAK to cruisers and ships, there had to be a chance for SIR units. But then, Zim would remember that his people showed no mercy to defects, and much like himself, GIR also fitted the category.
Then there were the siblings... Zim didn't get to destroy Dib. Who had lost? Their rivalry didn't have the expected ending. Nobody died while their planet burned or lied down on an autopsy table as some government scientists took out their insides. Zim never got to see Gaz like she calmly had said the last time they talked, a month before he left.
All those affairs in which he hadn't been involved, so many broken promises, failed plans -they made him feel empty, nostalgic. Hopeless.
And yet, even when unconscious Zim recalled moments that would bring unexplored feelings. And yet, even when Irken barely slept one or two hours, although they weren't supposed to experience those unwitting fantasies, Zim often wondered if those were the same hallucinations humans called dreams. But his race didn't posses such ability, and they certainly had no connection with emotions, so...
So all had to be a glitch, a mere consequence of his PAK receiving plenty of unbearable damage during what felt like centuries. Its tools and weapons had been destroyed in case he tried to escape or defend himself, and as time went by, punches and kicks might have also affected its condition.
No longer did his PAK sent him fierce discharges whenever Zim felt something prohibited. It luckily auto-reseted him after a raging beating, and who knows how much time took for the device to carry out the action. Deep inside, Zim feared of what may happen someday. What if his PAK committed an error and deleted his memories, leaving only a living empty shell? One day Zim could wake up with no idea about this place, about his identity, with a forgotten life.
He didn't want that, he didn't want to forget about his unclear defeat against Dib, about GIR's odd childish voice, about Gaz's unusual flawless face. They were just an enemy, a henchman and practically a stanger, but even if he would never admit it to no one, let alone himself, they... They were everything he had. One way or another, his last piece of sanity laid with them.
The ex-invader clenched his eyes shut.
No.
Stop it.
Don't become even weaker! Stop!
He was not some stupid being who relied on emotions! He was not so pathetic, he couldn't be! No more feelings, no more memories. If his PAK wanted to go haywire and mess up with them, so be it. They weren't important, his mind was on the verge of cracking and getting lost due to persistent torture and isolation, and that was the problem!
But then... Why the was the patch of vision becoming blurry? How was it that thinking about forgetting these humans and ex-minion hurt as much as the feel of a whip coming down on the back of his skull?
"I-I don't need them," Zim croaked, a weak voice fighting back the shortness of breath. With the help of his good hand and whatever little help the broken one could provide, he sat up fast and brusquely. There was pain along the gruff move. Infernal, sharp pain, but it somehow elicited nothing save a faint hiss.
"Zim doesn't need feelings or memories or anyone." His eye roamed round the dark torture chamber and he almost tasted madness. Four cracked walls and monotonous stone floor stained in his blood around every shadowed corner. All colourless, all empty, all dark and cold and so sickly grey. Not even the pinkish liquid could be excluded from this pitch darkness.
He reached out desperately and yanked down one of the abused antennas. "Let me go, Let me go!" he wailed between angry gasps, releasing the fragile appendage resentfully. "Don't you see I'm a defect? Kill me already, do something! Deactivate me! That's what you do to defects!" Zim shouted at the iron door, hoping that some guard passed by the hall, pitifully believing that his pleas would be heard and taken into account.
Hysterical rage prompted the alien to stretch his legs and rise to his feet despite burning twinges along his cramped limbs, only to scramble to the side before achieving a straight standing posture. His weight rested on the bloody wound and he let out a cry of agony. Tears finally streamed down his face, sizzling his cheeks and the area around his eyes and leaving behind a shrivelled trail of black charred skin that would take an infinity to scar and heal properly.
He hated this, this undying suffering. He loathed this confinement, this cage that reeked of gore and tell stories of pain, unfairness and failure! He was miserable and alone and broken here! Everybody was! And not all of them deserved this cruel fate! He knew it!
"Please! Do something! Anything! I can barely–" Zim's spent vocal chords gave out and a coughing fit cut his voice mid-sentence. His fresh, thick wound twinged over and over due to the pressure and agitation and he quickly rolled on his side so it would be intact, but the PAK mixed with spasms made the whole exertion a heavy infliction of pain.
"It hurts too much..." Zim snivelled, his chest rising and falling uncontrollably until he couldn't hold back anymore. He burst into breathless sobs. His body curled up again, his eyes squeezed shut, tears barrelled down and became one with charred skin and grime, lingering on the outline of his chin until they fused and turned overly weighty to keep clinging to his face.
"Please..." the urgent supplication echoed through the dungeon, unheard like dying trees. "Please..."
And there, lying in the middle of that murky black hole where days, afternoons and nights didn't exist, the once arrogant invader cried everything he had. All bottled-up tears withheld since his arrival streamed down his ruined face one after the other.
His PAK sent no discharge.
.
The clock chimed once.
It chimed twice.
Dib sat in front of the desk, staring down at his fidgeting hands wet with perspiration. For unknown reasons, he had been sent to the principal's office minutes prior to the last period of class, an occurrance wich, thanks to meticulous caution, hadn't taken place in Dib's life for perhaps two weeks and a half.
Strange fact, the principal wasn't even there. A secretary who found Dib sitting on the bench near the office had told him in her characteristic impolite manner of existing to enter, take a seat, refrain from nosing around, and wait there. Dib had no idea what he might have done wrong.
The teen remained silent, clenching and unclenching his hands for two or three minutes until he heard the squeaking sound of the wooden door opening, then a brief pause, and shortly after the door slamming shut.
His back tensed up; the principal was in a foul mood.
A spruce, serious, dark-haired man hovering on his early thirties approached the desk and sat on the comfty-looking chair, his blue, piercing eyes glaring into Dib's soul with no intention of hiding his contempt. Every student in this school knew this man was very nice and gentle at times, but also hellishly strict and intimidating to the point of being scary if somebody disliked him for improper behaviour, abysmal grades, or just because.
Dib couldn't help shivering the slightest bit under that gaze. Through the years, he became aware that the principal, much like most people, hated his guts with an intense passion and didn't feel particularly happy whenever he was in the office. The way the older man kept eying him while resting his forearms on the desk dispelled all doubts.
Dib fought the sudden, urgent need to use a bathroom and greeted the man. "G-good afternoon," he said, his voice a sheepish undertone which expressed due respect and acknowledgement, but also left his obvious fear officially uncovered.
The principal didn't answer. His gaze, on the other hand, sharpened enough to send a chill down the boy's spine. "I tried to contact your father today," he commented after an eternity of obnoxious staring. "As usual, a partner of his answered the phone and told me he was too absorbed in his work activities to take the call."
The boy couldn't find words to the accusing tone. "Um, I-I am truly sorry." The silent, nasty glower persisted and Dib gulped, his trembling hands already gripping the fabric of his trousers. "May I... Um... Why–?"
"Stop stuttering. And speak louder."
Dib's shoulders rose painfully, making him look smaller. No matter how many times he talked to the principal, every day the man grew more aggressive towards him. He was terrifying, and his order impossible to fulfill. Speak louder, when everybody tells you to shut up.
"Somebody saw you in the boys bathroom," the adult snarled. "Apparently, you brought a switchblade in spite of its prohibition in this educational institution."
Dib's uneasy hands suddenly became the most interesting thing in the office.
The man let out a frustrated half-sigh, half-grunt. He stood up slowly and moved to the gap between the frightened boy and the desk, resting on its edge and folding his arms with a patronizing air. "What is it? Have you also cut your tongue?"
Startled amber eyes looked up at the authority figure's middle. ". . . Excuse me?"
Unkind fingers pushed Dib's chin up to make eye contact possible. A jittery glint of trepidation mingled with sorrow sparkled in his eyes. The man had never gone further than insulting him indirectly. This was unsettling to a whole different degree.
"Give it to me. The knife."
There was no case. One trembling hand pulled out the tool in question and passed it over.
The principal snatched the blade and threw it carelessly on the desk. "I despise teenagers like you."
Dib shuddered, his voice barely above a whisper. "A-and... what are exactly teenagers like me?"
The man clutched the same hand that gave him the switchblade and lifted the trenchcoat's sleeve almost violently, exposing scattered scars and fresh cuts that spread from the Dib's forearm to his wrist like wet red painting. "The ones seeking for attention."
Attention? Just what the heck did the guy who saw him say? And... was it legal to be treated like this? Dib was going to suffer a heart-attack if the principal didn't soften. "I-I carry around the switchblade for protection."
"Do not play dumb, because that is not the version I have been told." The man gripped Dib's upper-arm with bruising strength to emphasize his point. "And certainly not the version your arm tells."
The teen's heart leapt to his throat. He gave the superior his most beseeching, dispirited look. "B-but I'm not lying, this is all a misunder–" his words caught.
The principal's staid features darkened as he leaned forward and grabbed the Dib's neck, digging a thumb on his throat and the rest of the fingers below the back of his skull. Swallowing turned difficult, and the pressure on Dib's tight throat caused saliva to sound louder than normal.
"I am aware that you have been seeing the school's counsellor since elementary, and I am aware of your problems too," the man informed darkly as his fingertips dug deeper, eliciting a shaky whimper. "I do not care what you decide to do in the depths of your room. But here, in the bathrooms of my school, self-harm is not allowed."
Dib shrank further between a pair of stiff shoulders. He saw his terrified aspect reflected in the principal's penetrating eyes and felt all the more negligible. Ashamed and at loss, he averted his gaze to the side meekly.
"If I find out that you keep carrying around more knives and tools of the like, or doing some odd activity implying cuts and such in any room belonging to this institution..." the man angled Dib's neck menacingly to ensure visual contact. "I will do everything within my reach to send your ass to the worst Psychiatric Ward in this country." His fingers squeezed the boy's cervical vertebrae until he twitched like a mistreated pet. "Do you understand, or do you need more details?"
The pressure aroused a dizzying pain that insisted on clenching around Dib's brain. Never in his life had an adult treated him like that or half-strangled his neck, not even his own father. He suddenly felt cornered. "I–"
"Do you understand?" The imposing man reiterated, louder.
Squirming into the clutch, Dib closed his eyes to hide the rising dampness. "Y-yes."
"Good." He released the teen's neck as though it were the most repugnant thing to touch.
Dib didn't wait a second to rub his throat with one hand and the area below his skull with the other. He blinked the tears away and fixed his trembling gaze on the floor, gasping for whatever air burned in his lungs. The taller man leaned back on the desk, his chin held high and the persisting stoic expression plastered on his face without any traces of guilt. Here, nothing happened. Is that clear?
"You are not going to detention today." A curt nod at the door. "Get out of here."
No need to say it twice.
Despite the previous fear paralysing Dib and his vocal chords, the soothing on his neck ceased and the rest of his body acted on its own. Clumsy hands reached out for the backpack resting on the front chair's leg, and in a flicker, the teen shot out the office at lightning speed.
Dib kept running, unsure of what he was truly escaping from and where he was heading to. He ran across three deserted halls and only stopped to ram his agitated body against a random wall and catch his breath. He slid down to the floor and drew his hands and knees to his face to shield him behind an isolating curtain of darkness.
The backpack fell to the floor between heavy gasps. Dib fought down a series of hitched sob and his head peeked out from the unhelpful shelter. With a constricted chest, he rolled up his coat's sleeve and examined the cuts through glistening eyes. His index finger trailed the thickest wound that started at his forearm and ended in a curve near his veins.
A Psychiatric Ward?
Either arm bore multiple wounds and scars and purple bruises, but they didn't have nothing to do with self-harm. His hate for physical pain wouldn't let him take a knife and slit his wrists just to see how much they bled, let alone getting relief at the sight. It didn't matter if his reputation of the crazy boy who used to assure there was an alien in the class lingered all around the school, or if he was an outcast among the rest of the students, Dib didn't belong to a Psychiatric Ward.
Those places wouldn't help him. His problems weren't severe enough to be locked. They didn't even exist. How couldn't people notice that? The door was open. They were able to get a little closer at any time and confirm his state of mind. Insulting him and drawing their own erroneous conclusions was an option added by them.
But of course, ignoring a rejected boy or waiting for him at the end of the school in order to steal his stuff and beat him whenever he refused to give them away surely resulted a whole lot more entertaining. Never mind those mental issues their actions caused, never mind what loneliness may do to a person in the long term. It wasn't their problem, and thus wasn't important. Simple as that. Dib had accepted people's indifference a long time ago and didn't expect them to change...
However, an adult joining this immature game of teenagers was way too perturbing and went far beyond transgression. Thinking about what might happen if another misunderstanding took place scared him to death. As a superior, it was only plausible that the man would win the match. He possessed the power to bring Dib down with a mere wave of his hand, and no one would be there to help him out.
The black sleeve covered all bloody lines again and Dib removed his glasses to wipe the tears. He remained crouched there for a while, recomposing, planning a way to arrive in his home without a black eye and an empty bag. It had been like fifteen minutes since the three guys in charge of physically bullying him left, so if they weren't assigned detention or simply didn't report, there was a possibility of bumping into them along the way.
And to top it all, his new switchblade had been confiscated. Dib ran both hands over his face in a stressed fashion. Ever so condemned.
With all his being, he hoped that Gaz wasn't moody, because an angry sister made him prefer school over home and bullies over her sometimes.
"Hope you're feeling generous for once, universe. I could borrow some luck today."
Putting his glasses on, he picked up the backpack and threw it over his shoulder. To keep running seemed to be his one sole choice.
.
The door swung open.
Dib trudged inside the house wearing an exhausted expression that only someone who had ran sixteen blocks could be allowed to wear. He closed the door behind him, rested his spine on it, and wiped off the perspiration on his forehead with the back of his hand. A faint smile crept up the edge of his lips and he rubbed his sore neck. Safe and sound. Must had been one of the unusually lucky racings at home.
His eyes immediately drifted to his surroundings. No apparent signs of Gaz.
The dark-haired boy ventured further into the house. She was neither in the living-room nor in the kitchen, so Dib took the opportunity to grab the first edible thing he saw out of the fridge. The apple didn't look rotten on the surface and it wouldn't have mattered if it did inside, because he devoured the fruit in less than thirty seconds. He could have eaten a whole worm and never got to know about it.
After going to the bathroom with the bag still on his back, the rest of the afternoon consisted of his daily routine: staying in his bedroom doing homework and reluctantly, even though the room wasn't much of a mess, cleaning in total silence. He switched places between books, decorative objects and whatever useless stuff he may find just to help hours pass.
It would have been great to do something about the hot, bothersome air and odd smell that had settled in the room due to enclosure, but opening the door was basically prohibited and they evidently refused to leave through the window.
By seven p.m. there was nothing else to do. His computer had broken like a year ago, the only TV was in the living room, and Dib didn't have energy to move either. Although as hunger persisted, the idea of going downstairs and eating something eventually began to sound appealing.
No. Scratch that.
Perhaps Gaz was in the living-room or the kitchen and Dib shouldn't allow the opportunity provoke her to even cross his mind. Unfortunately, it was hard to tell what to avoid doing since his presence alone, according to the hostile girl, was enough to suffocate her, and it had became very different from when they were younger.
Like Dib himself, Gaz also had her own problems. Little control over anger, a tendency to be extremely violent, willing isolation and growing misanthropy were very few of them.
Actually, from all the people and situations Dib had no other choice than to hold out, Gaz was the most frightening. Dib went as far as to get up an hour earlier than her in order to have a decent breakfast and a shower without mandatory worries such as Gaz losing her temper over trivialities.
Every time he got near, she made up ridiculous excuses to mistreat him either psychologically or physically. How long he took in the bathroom and loud chewing used to be her most frequent arguments, but Dib became adept at steering clear of her during the mornings.
Sure, he could try to defend himself. Even if his hand-to-hand combat skill and strength didn't compare to Gaz's, he could attempt to reciprocate despite her irrational anger. But something far beyond fear didn't let him try, and it was the simple fact that Gaz was a woman. And not any woman, she was his little sister. Dib couldn't bring himself to damage her. Relatives weren't supposed to hurt each other.
With each passing day, he wondered more often why Gaz differed so openly.
A growl interrupted his mental rambling, the source his impatient stomach demanding attention.
The alarm-clock on the small table struck 8:54 p.m. and whoa, time certainly flew when Did laid in bed staring at the ceiling. His stomach wouldn't wait a minute longer. The few nutrient-poor snacks he'd managed to take out from the fridge for the past three days failed to alleviate hunger. He pined for real food.
So, as if his brain wasn't in charge of decisions anymore, he mustered courage and got up, cracked the door open stealthily and peeked out.
The hall was dark, eerily freezing and silent. Dib stepped out nonetheless. The first he noticed, aside from the cool breeze flowing in the air that not by chance blew in his room, was the unmistakable glowing light of their TV tainting the wall at the beginning of the stairs.
She was down there.
But if he behaved correctly, there wouldn't be fresh cuts or multi-coloured bruises or incessant shedding of blood... right? Just eating, then drinking, then going back to the room in the shortest time possible. Gaz wouldn't, couldn't come up with an excuse because there weren't any at hand.
Several minutes of hesitation later, Dib went down the stairs. The TV was the only source of illumination, muted on the news channel. Gaz was nowhere to be seen.
There was, however, light coming from the kitchen, and the noise of microwave buttons confirmed his suspicions, also stirring a revolting sensation in the pit of his stomach that just wasn't related to hunger anymore. He shook it off the next instant.
Just eating, then drinking, then back to my room.
He walked through the archway, caught a discreet glimpse of Gaz placing a steaming mug on the table, and headed straight to the fridge. With every careful step, he perceived the incessant glare burning holes through his back. He did his best to concentrate on finding fresh ingredients to make a sandwich or something, tried to ignore the tension growing stronger the longer he took, but before he lifted a hand, Gaz spoke.
"Close the fridge and turn around."
Dib froze. That voice sounded closer than it should.
He slowly did as she said, only to shrink and recoil against the fridge when Gaz stood right in front of him as emotionless and intimidating as ever, holding a kitchen knife and likely preparing to unleash her fury at any time she pleased.
"You took something mine," the girl accused, gripping the knife handle at her side. "Where is it?"
Dib's heart contracted with an aching tightness. He instinctively hid his arms between the appliance and his behind. Lately, Gaz had developed some kind of wicked interest in hurting his arms and face first than everything else.
Her eyes shot open, demanding a clear response, exposing those raging amber orbs that prompted a wave of anxiety nausea within her suddenly pale brother.
Shrinking further in fear, Dib tensed up and fumbled for an answer of any kind to prevent her from growing impatient. But without warning, the tip of the knife pressed firmly against his neck and a choked, timid whimper came out instead.
"You know I dislike not getting answers, Dib." Gaz angled the knife so that the cutting edge touched his skin. "And you are very aware," she added between gritted teeth, "of how much I hate people taking away what doesn't belong to them."
The tone full of loathing urged him to gulp hard and swallow the knot of nervousness in his throat. He didn't remember breaking one of his sister's rules. Whenever Dib talked to himself, he made sure it was softly and only inside his room. He left the house early for safety, before Gaz woke up, and he didn't eat unless it was food he had bought. So what, what, just what in the world was she referring to?
"G-Gaz, I don't know what you are talking about." He closed his eyes briefly to get a rest from her scorching stare. "Please, don't–"
But Gaz didn't wish to hear him out. She withdrew the knife, extended one of his forearms by force, and sliced through the fabric of his coat, slashing open the sensitive skin beneath. The stinging sensation and sight of blood make Dib yelp, and before he could think reasonably, his other hand slapped Gaz's on its own as a reflex, successfully disarming her. The stained knife fell to the floor and his legs seized the opportunity to move in a desperate attempt to escape.
But Gaz was quicker and she clutched his sleeve, and the next thing Dib felt was his temple and head colliding with the fridge and Gaz's palm pushing his cheek down to keep him in place.
"You took my switchblade," his sister hissed, her hand sliding up to grab a tight fistful of dark hair. "Why the heck did you take my switchblade?" She hit his head against the fridge hard enough to elicit another fearful groan; music to her ears. "Answer!"
It was hers? How the hell did a fifteen-year-old-girl obtain such a dangerous knife?
"I swear I didn't know it was yours!"
A feral, dissatisfied grunt rang in his ears. "Why did you take it?"
"I-it was in the living-room, i-in one of the drawers-"
"I didn't ask you that!" She tugged at his hair as though to rip it off the scalp, then banged his head against the harsh surface once more. "Answer my question!"
This was too much. The strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, the urge to throw up, the large cut. Dib could feel the blood pouring out of his forearm, staining his coat, dripping onto the tiles... and he was terrified, because he didn't know whether his racing heart might resist, because sometimes Gaz's actions couldn't be labelled any different than torture. Why did a girl found currents of wicked pleasure at the sight of her beaten brother, despite being practically the same flesh and having grown up together?
Dib would have liked to tell her that the switchblade was a last resort for self-defence, that he was sick and tired of getting beaten and stolen by trouble-maker bullies. But then again, why would she care? No witty words or lies would save him from his sister's absurd fury.
"SPEAK!"
Dib tensed up more. No, nothing would save him, but he still owed her an explanation and Gaz never forgave a debt. "I... I took it because there are some guys who hit me daily and..." An inhuman grunt rumbled through her chest, and his voice faltered at the same time his legs almost did. "I-I wanted to defend myself."
Aside from his loud heart-beating, the kitchen fell silent for what felt like an eternity, until Gaz loosened the vicious grip slightly.
"Where is it now?" she asked, her tone momentarily peaceful. She slapped Dib's face with the back of her other hand. "Where is it?!"
"The principal took it!" Dib cried out without thinking. "I-I'm sorry, I'll get you another one. Please, it wasn't– AH!" For the third time, his head collided with the fridge so violently that, had it not been by the choking, he would have thrown up right then and there.
Gagging, Dib's shocked gaze searched for Gaz's, silently begging her not to go further, but he found nothing else than a pair of amber eyes fogged by bloodthirsty rage and raw realisation soon struck him like one of her sister's blows: this wasn't about the switchblade at all.
Gaz's eyes narrowed into slits. "I'll destroy you."
The cold statement send a danger signal to Dib's nervous system. He snapped. Courage and unnerving fear did their work and he shoved the girl aside, but before he reached the archway, her hand clutched the wounded spot on his arm. There wasn't enough time to react. A whimper slipped past his lips, his surroundings sped up, courage vanished as quick as it came to be replaced by familiar dread, and just like that, Gaz dragged Dib back and punched him square in the face.
Upon tumbling to the ground, the impact knocked off his glasses and time settled on its normal lapse. He tasted blood oozing from his inner-cheek and his vision turned blurrier. Gaz was over him in a heartbeat, digging her knee onto his stomach and enjoying the painful moans that escaped her brother's mouth, the tears that fell freely down his face.
She threw another punch at his jaw, then another at his cheek, then a heavier one at the corner of his mouth from where a trickle of blood ran down his chin.
Dib's breathing hitched in his lungs and his head lolled to the side weakly. "I'm sorry," he repeated, disoriented. "P-please, I'm sorry." The fist descended dangerously close to his eye. His upper-body twitched and a choked whimper escaped his throat. "Please, don't hurt me anymore, please."
But his pleas fed off Gaz's encouragement, leaving it stuffed like a turkey.
Wearing the most severe expression of loathing, she dug her knee as far as possible and her left fist fell remorselessly upon his brother's wet cheekbone. "I hate your face." Her right hand re-positioned his head and the blow came down right onto his forehead. "Your repulsive smell." She re-positioned his neck again and her fist landed on his nose. "Your horrible voice!" Her knuckles crushed his lips. "I hate everything you are!"
Plaintive moans along with irrepressible, broken sobs echoed around the kitchen while Gaz unleashed a flurry of punches upon the right side of Dib's face. His frantic movements no longer represented an obstacle, his voice no longer uttered coherent words, and she carried on with the monotonous process until she was panting from the brutality of her attack.
Punch. Turn head. Punch. Turn head. Punch.
Mouth. Nose. Forehead. Eye. Cheek.
Over and over, without rest, the blows came down one after the other.
Confusion and dizziness wrapped the boy. His blurry vision became red, his senses began to fail. His scared body shuddered spasmodically at every vicious blow, and only when a low buzz ringing in his right ear joined his condition, the assault ceased for a fleeting second.
Dib was lost in reality, but he still risked casting an anguished glance at the hazy figure of Gaz, whose chest continued to heave as her fist remained high in the air, prepared to descend at any moment. The pressure of her knee elicited another choked sound and her right hand straightened his neck once more, threatening to resume its game. Stormy eyes locked with a pair of lost, pleading ones, and Dib was so delirious with pain that he truly believed he saw a glint of pity behind the rage clouding those orbs so similar to his.
He found out it was a mind trick when her bloody knuckles got closer full speed and hit his mouth, the impact much more intense than previous punches, making a noise so loud and aggressive that it almost sounded fake to Dib's ears. He panted and moaned shakily with petrifying fear, then she threw one more knuckled punch at his cheekbone. And slower but stronger, another came.
One, two, three, four. Several.
It might have been seven, ten or even fifteen. Dib couldn't tell. He could only sob, mumble unfinished words and clutch Gaz's dress with whatever little strength was left in his body. His mind swam with the constant impact, remotely focused on the way his head was forced to turn and the occasional drops of blood flying to the sides, followed by grunts of his mauler just before the next punch made contact.
Panic reached its peak the moment Dib realised his nose was also added to the blood loss. His breathing came out in hysterical exhalations, his heart raced inside his ribcage, the hoarse whimpers leaked out whenever his sister's fist collided with him. One last blow descended upon the corner of his mouth -a fierce, knuckled one that caused the poor teen to choke, cry out and cough blood all at once.
Gaz removed the knee roughly and rose to her feet, panting and sweating as she looked down at her handiwork, admiring and memorizing the picture of his brother reduced to a shivering bundle of nerves gasping for air and choking in such a simple process like breathing. She watched with fascination as he miserably turned on his stomach and propped himself on his feeble elbows, blood spots covering most of his face, T-shirt collar, the tiles around his head and his swollen, chapped lips that quivered helplessly under her leer.
And still, something was missing. The sight just wasn't satisfactory enough, the inflicted pain wasn't enough. His reactions weren't enough. Gaz wanted more. Gaz wanted to see him writhing in agony, to see him clinging to his last minutes in this world. Her darkest side craved seeing him struggle between life and death.
Without second thoughts, Gaz kicked his side savagely and watched him crumble mid-crawl. A furious growl resonated deep in her throat. Not enough yet. She prepared her foot again and aimed for a second kick -a more brutal, more powerful one which knocked the breath out of Dib so fast that he had to release a voiceless moan just not to pass out.
Gaz knew he wouldn't endure another blow, knew he probably couldn't remain awake in the end, but she gave a third, hefty kick nonetheless. And he didn't handle it.
Dry gags echoed in the sector, soon followed by the expulsion of clear liquids mixed with blood that spilled into a small puddle over the tiles. Tears of pain and embarrassment streamed down Dib's face and his choked up sobs turned overly agitated and desperate.
Never in his life had he felt so ashamed, so broken, so humiliated. His classmates called him names, rejected him because they asserted he was insane and ugly and pathetic... But this... His own family, the only sibling he had was stripping him of his humanity, and she was enjoying each second.
The coughing and weeping didn't cease. Gaz crouched in front of him and lifted his head by yanking those bangs of hair that resembled a scythe. Expecting another sequence of blows, he let out a shallow moan of panic while his weak arms and elbows trembled to support his torso. Gaz looked intently into Dib's swollen, glistening eyes and he seemed to be looking back into hers, but Gaz knew he saw nothing else than a blurry shade of black, purple, pale skin, and the red of his own blood covering almost half of his face.
"Consider this a calm warning," Gaz spat, somehow finding peace at the sight of his brother looking like a scared animal. "I don't want this sort of events to ever occur again. Next time you'd better think twice before touching something mine and then losing it. Did I make myself clear?"
More scared moans and plaintive sobs were all Dib managed to articulate, and Gaz generously interpreted their meaning and let go. For an instant she stood there, not moving an inch, looking down on Dib and every sad twitching move he made in an attempt to stand up. His hands anxiously searched for something in the opposite direction of the puddle of vomit, near her feet, and a vague glance to the side helped Gaz figure out that Dib was feeling around for his glasses.
His hand scooted closer. His pale, scrawny, unwounded hand, and Gaz didn't refrained from stomping on it with all her weight, earning the last couple of pleading whimpers and tears, finally reaching that so awaited state of wholeness she had been yearning for the entire day.
The feel of his hand struggling to escape, the feel of its bones being crushed beneath her satisfied her hunger for hurting. They were the closest moment of bliss Gaz had ever had the pleasure to savour. No visible wounds were on the skin after she lifted her foot, but she could see the pain his brother was experimenting and hell... It was such a thrill.
The same foot smashed the glasses. Dib must have heard the sound of lenses shattering and temple-arms cracking, for his eyes widened momentarily, and then his head bowed hopelessly in the sound's direction.
"Switchblade for glasses," Gaz announced nonchalantly. "I'll give you until tomorrow morning to clean this mess. Unless you want to end up in a wheelchair, there'd better not be any drop of blood or vomit in this kitchen when I wake up. Now, get up and go to your damn room."
Still trembling and snivelling, Dib scrambled to his feet as fast as his conditions allowed him, ignoring the infernal twinges pulsating throughout his body. He fled past the archway, crashing his arm into its frame blindly. Dizziness worsened along the short way to his bedroom and he hardly managed to climb up the stair, close the door behind him and spot the blurry bed across the room. He stumbled forward and let himself fall on his stomach, legs hanging out and face burying into the mattress. Blood and tears stained the sheets below as he cried his heart out in silence.
Hours might have gone by. Dib was surprised that he was alive, but either he had passed out or fallen asleep, because there was a gap between the moment his head hit the mattress and the moment he closed his humid eyes. He struggled to get his aching body up and checked on the alarm-clock. He discerned it was two in the morning and left it at that, since the minutes were an incomprehensible blur without glasses.
A sigh leaked past his lips. That was the third pair this year. He'd have to use some of his saved money to replace them again.
Dib eventually stopped staring a the table and grabbed the tiny bottle of pills that had been there for two days straight. He rose to his feet carefully, made sure his balance was stable and dashed into the bathroom in front of his bedroom, locking the door behind him as if the hall were on fire. He placed the bottle on the edge of the sink and slowly, fearfully, lifted his gaze to examine himself in the mirror.
He found the hazy reflection of a boy with puffy eyes, whose face was covered in dry blood and blueish and reddish bruises. A boy with one split lip who didn't look decent for school and wouldn't fool any counsellor with spontaneous explanations.
Dib touched his bruised eyelid tentatively, hissing and flinching at the cut he didn't get to see on that spot before, source of the dry blood around his eye and temple. His body shuddered as his fingertips trailed down, brushing the discolouration on his cheekbone and then his swollen, chapped lower lip, surrounded by both dry and fresh blood. He was glad his nose didn't look crooked. Teachers staring was the last thing he needed.
Dib lowered his gaze with bitter disgust. He disliked his appearance ever since middle-school, it was a recurring topic in his therapies. How was he supposed to grow fond of his face if it looked this bloody so regularly? Nerd glasses, pronounced eye-bags, dark bruises and nasty gashes couldn't appeal to anyone, not even their wearer.
With one more dreary glance at the mirror an a sharp intake of air, Dib splashed water on his face and gingerly washed the blood away with his towel, wincing and hissing whenever he brushed the wounds by accident, until the only proof of his beating were marks impossible to conceal and swelling.
His attention then drifted to the bottle full of green and white antidepressants that his former psychiatrist had prescribed weeks ago. He poured one of the bicolour capsules and held it up on his palm, pondering on whether to acquire this habit or not. He knew under which circumstances he was -eating disorders related to anxiety, insistent insomnia, over-thinking, prolonged periods of hopelessness, the lack of both energy and concentration; all was a consequences of an almost severe depression.
The psychiatrist and Dib knew it was on the verge of turning serious when he'd approved of the idea of dying. Even if suicide wasn't an option yet, depression might change his point of view soon if he didn't treat it correctly. It had been long since Dib lost interest in life.
He neither watched episodes of his favourite, cancelled TV programme anymore, nor did he go out with his camera in hopes of taking some photos about paranormal creatures to share with members of the Swollen Eyeball. Those days had ended after Zim's unexpected departure, when each person of his age chose indifference upon sympathy, when his father stopped passing by their house at least twice a week, the moment Gaz grew colder and decided to turn her back on him.
But never mind what loneliness may do to someone's mind, right?
He could try to get closer to them, to overcome this depressive disorder. He could agree to consume medical drugs in order to go on and improve, but daily pills wouldn't make the rest of the world cooperate. He'd never volunteered to be constantly abused, he'd never volunteered to be a loner, and that was something antidepressants would never fix.
More frustration tears brimmed Dib's reddened eyes. He made a fist with the capsule still inside and towered over the sink, gripping one of its edges so as not to give into sobs. It wasn't time for crying, there was a kitchen down there that had yet to be cleaned. He swallowed the pill dry and looked at himself in the mirror. He blinked away the threatening tears and came across the same beaten face he got to despise so much overtime. Antidepressants may or may not help him raise his poor self-esteem and self-confidence in the long term, Dib couldn't fully trust them.
And yet, aside from himself, those thirty capsules were all the help he would get so as not to be pushed toward suicide in moments of intense pain and vulnerability. Because he might die at some point, when his body and mind finally cracked under the adolescence he was bound to suffer, but his owns hands wouldn't be responsible for his death. That he swore, by his mother's soul.