Before I Die
Rating: M (Underage; sexual situations)
One shot
Remorse comes with storms.
Passions rides on the flames.
Mercy found in rain.
The knock comes in the middle of the night.
All the clocks in the Parr household read 3:12 AM, except for the one in the kitchen, which blinks 12:00. It flashes- one, twice- each following every resounding thud. It is a scene from a nightmare, bleeding into Violet's dreams, shapes turning teethed and glowing red, snapping- once, twice- before she shoots out of bed, the sound of rain pattering against her rapidly cooling mind.
Everything tells her to relax. Each experience, every lesson- they are the same. Relax. Keep your wits. Breathe.
3:13.
The sounds of the monsters- the knocking on the door- are becoming irregular and desperate. The sound of a palm sliding down wet wood slips through the air, wrenching ears. Sounds different than the others are growing in the household; sounds of shifting and caution as her parents creep down the hall.
Breathe.
3:14.
Just breathe.
Sliding out from under her covers is like jumping into frozen water; you can't see, can't think, and the warmth that keeps the feeling of safety is swept away, leaving you with a moment of sheer fright- but it's too tiny to ever even notice, and it simply becomes cold. Violet reaches for her robe, pausing only briefly to think, pondering if she should go to the door, see what is on the other side. Leaving it all to her parents would be easy.
But her curiosity is too great, and flickers of child-like excitement make her grab hold of the soft cotton and wrap it around her, drawing the string tight. She opens the door slowly, looking down the hall. She smiles when she spots a pair of bright blue eyes.
She isn't the only one who is curious.
Immediately, she smells rain. It's cold and sharp, laced with the power of the night. It chills her lungs, creeping into her mind and stretching it out, pulling her senses forward, drawing her arms closer to the warmth of her chest, the safety it holds. Each pitter patter is loud, too loud for the house unless the ceiling opens up to the sky. Excitement taps at her heart, for the door had been opened.
She moves slowly, as any child would in the middle of the night. She is snooping, the feeling similar to all the other nights when she wants something sweet. Behind her, she hears her brother, and with more shimmers of sibling innocence, she moves a little faster. She wants to see the surprise before him.
It takes until she sees the shadows of her parents that she realizes how heavy the air is. At first, all she can sense is the rain. She can smell it, feel it, taste it- it is all about the rain, about the symbol of opening up and upsetting the natural order; rain in the house, in her bed, in her dreams.
But along the rain, laced within it, is a sour, sickening feeling. It is dry and pungent and it tears into her, pulling forth frightful memories. It is familiar- too familiar- and it makes it unable to breathe. The air is too thick, heavy like lead, weighing down in her chest, pushing her feet into the ground, freezing her there.
Her brother can't feel it. He is still moving. But all it takes is a few more steps than her, and not a moment later, he, too, is stuck, trapped in the moment, unable to move against the heavy anger that saturates the air.
She knows what is there. She knows. And all she has to do is close her eyes to see it.
Her parents are standing there, her father's hand on the doorknob, his eyes livid with fury. Her mother is too kind, and she is unable to draw upon any other emotion except shock. And her brother... all he can do is watch.
And she…
She is standing in front of them all, her robe closed around her, warm and safe. The rain is sweeping forward, the wind gaining strength. It's splashing against the floor, rising up and tickling her ankles. Her eyes look to the rain, and she wonders why it has brought this memory to their doorstep. Then, they look down, blinking away water and wind to fall upon an outstretched hand, bandaged, but bleeding.
She is the only one who can understand, who can see without anger, without shock, without confusion.
She is the only one who can accept.
There is no pride to him now, no strong stance, no confident smirks. He is on the ground, tattered and shunned, and when his tired, blue eyes turn to meet hers, she can only watch as the remains of his once handsome self crumble around him.
His lips move, and he breathes two words, words carried on the wind of the storm, into the rain, across her face, before his eyes roll back into his head and he crumples onto the soaked doorstep.
No one can move. No one can think.
Violet closes her eyes, and tastes the air.
"Forgive me."
Her father won't give him a bed.
Her mother will- if her father will.
Her brother cannot shut up.
Having irrationally decided that Syndrome deserved a chance to explain why he was here, she is having extreme difficulties with her parents. Fighting seems to be the only logical solution, so that's what they do.
She wonders a half an hour later, after her father has gone somewhere to destroy something after losing the battle, if telling them about what Syndrome had said before passing out would have changed things. Would it have made them more receptive to the idea of giving him a place to sleep? Or would they have yelled just as much at one another?
Would telling them her own feelings change anything?
Logically, she knows that her father wouldn't care, but the dreamer in her still ponders.
Dash is in the background, chatting up a storm. She has no idea who he is talking to, and then she begins to think that she is supposed to be the receiving audience. But her patience is too short for him right now, and she wanders off, his explosive, excited comments becoming quieter and quieter until they fade away completely.
She reaches her room and she pauses outside the door.
She has won him a bed- the only bed that anyone was willing to give up.
Touching the doorknob, her skin tingles against the cool metal, tracing up her palm and her arm until it reaches her brain and tell her she's insane.
She smiles, and opens the door.
3:46.
She smells the rain, but she can also smell grunge, grime, dirt, blood, and something sour, like infection. It's heavy and it hangs across all of her furniture like thick fabric. It is the smell of death.
It's almost too much for her, but then she remembers the taste, the tingling of her tongue. She licks her lips, and shuts the door behind her.
At the sound, he shifts, and something akin to a groan comes from him, but it's raspy, and it almost sounds like a dying breath. Fear leaps into her heart, and she rushes forward, touching him at the center of his chest where she can hear the source of his pain.
Cold strength wraps around her wrist, and she has to bite down on her tongue to stop from screaming. Scream, and it would be all over. For her, and for him.
He looks and smells weak, but his eyes, although worn and beaten, still smolder from the shadows of his past glory. His reputation still lives and gives him what strength remains.
His grip tightens, and she knows she won't be able to move until he wills it.
He is looking at her with an intensity she has never known. It is piercing and it stings her right down to her very core. It is as if he is peeling her apart with a sharp knife, cutting her into tiny slivers until he can see every part of her, looking through to every secret. No armor, her soul bare- he can will her to do anything. He can make her quiver with fright, force her cry out every tear she would ever shed. He can even persuade her to love him.
But that would be too easy.
Then, just as quickly as he had done it, he patches her back up, pushing and sliding all the parts to her together, and he does it all with one look.
He holds onto her just as tightly as before, but it no longer strikes any fear into her heart. Instead, she is becoming warm, albeit cautious, and she looks down curiously at his expression of confusion.
"Why?" he asks quietly.
A question she asks herself millions of times in the span of only a few seconds. And no matter how many times she hears it, her answer remains the same.
"Respect."
He snorts, and he lets her go, breaking what magic she thinks is building somewhere.
"Respect? You did it out of respect for me?" He relaxes into her pillows, his body made weary from his simple movements. He sighs heavily, and it may be her imagination, but he seems a little frustrated. "Stupid girl."
Lying there, he becomes cynicism incarnate, and Violet marvels at the transformation. He is like a chameleon, always changing. You can only truly find him when he is looking for you. You turn an eye and search for him, and he disappears, becoming something else entirely.
She finds a seat next to him, besides his hip, and settles in, looking at him with calm curiosity. "Why?"
He smirks, and it fits onto his features awkwardly, as if it hasn't been there in a long time. All of the lines in his face are revealed; the scars, the places where things no longer work properly.
It has only been a year, but he has aged twenty.
"You're so young," he murmurs, and she knows he is trying to be mean, but he is too tired, and against his will, the words come out in whispers of sadness. "So young, so stupid… Your innocence is suffocating."
"Well," she says quietly, trying to hide her growing feeling of amazement, "I am only fourteen." And because she is fourteen, she quickly adds, "But I will be fifteen soon."
He slides his eyes over to her, and again she can feel his probing eyes touching her, reaching for answers she doesn't know she has. He turns away after a moment, and then he laughs. The lines grow deeper, and the sickness she feels around them grows a litter darker in the face of his amusement.
She realizes then that any happiness he feels draws him a little closer to death.
"You are a walking contradiction, you know that?" he says with an air of laughter.
She has never been told she was thus, and so she replies, "No, I don't know that." And then she secretly begins to figure out what a walking contradiction is so the chances of her making a fool of herself get a little smaller.
He gestures to her, and her concentration is broke. Her eyes follow his hand, her body feeling his invisible touch. "You have such a mature presence. When I saw you at the door, I thought all the time I felt in my body was real, and that twenty years had actually passed." He laughs again and drops my hand. "And then you open your mouth and…" He snaps his fingers. "The illusion is lost."
She bristles, and her face grows hot with embarrassment. However, her mouth stays shut, lest she prove his words to be true.
Silence falls, and the sound of rain enters the room. It slowly begins to replace the tension, leaving a repetitive, reliant, calming feeling. She listens to the rain, to each sound it makes as it hits against the house, and she imagines herself out in it, reaching up and letting every single drop caress her skin. It would soak into her, and it would wash away her childishness and she would be a woman.
The dream is broken when she realizes that only a child would think such things.
"I think you could use some air," she says, standing up and heading to the other side of the bed. She can feel his eyes on her as she opens her window. A wet breeze flies into the room, sweeping away the acrid smells, leaving it fresh and cool, like taking a bite into a crunchy, cold cucumber. She sighs with relief, and then settles down onto the windowsill, watching the rain from behind the protection of the screen.
4:02.
The world outside is still dark except for the streetlamps that flicker slightly with orange light. She can smell the grass and sweetness of spring. She cannot wait for morning so she can look outside and see all the life that has sprung up from the rain. She begins to picture the little section of garden her mother gave to her, and the flowers she has planted. They would be bright and vibrant, and they would live forever with this magical rain in their roots.
The wind is whistling, her hair swaying against her thin shoulders, brushing against her delicate neck. The rain hits against the screen, spraying her finely with cold water. Her light camisole is growing colder, and she shivers as she watches the storm.
She can feel the strength of the rain running through her, and it makes her scared. In the morning, will her garden be destroyed? Will her flowers be too young and weak to survive? They are beautiful, but she knows that are so very frail. She doesn't know if they can withstand what the storm brings. She fears for them and their safety, and prays that they survive.
Another breeze hits her, and she gasps as it covers her, pleasant chills going down her spine. The rain brings fright, and it also brings beauty. For her, it is magic and a dream, and even though she is concerned, she cannot help but bathe in the power of the storm. She breaths it in, letting it fill her, caress her, drawing her to the magic she knows it holds.
She hears a groan of pain, and she is pulled roughly out of her dream. She quickly gets off of the windowsill and goes to Syndrome, looking over him with concern.
"Are you alright? Do you need-"
"Don't do that again."
They are words that are usually coupled with anger, but she cannot hear it, cannot sense it. She looks to him, confused, but he won't meet her eyes.
"Don't do what?" she asks, genuinely puzzled, and then she shivers again when she feels the wind jumping up against her back, the silk of her camisole tickling her skin, making her legs weak. She sighs with a shudder, and she pulls away to go and shut the window.
Her wrist is suddenly in his hand, and her arm jerks. She turns back to him, a hand going up to her mouth to cradle the gasp that escapes from her mouth when she sees him. He is smoldering, burning, and his eyes are right on hers, taking her apart rapidly, almost clumsily as he reaches for her core.
"I told you not to do that," he rasps as he pulls her forward, her feet stumbling against the carpet. "I told you, and you did it anyway…"
"Wait- I'm sorry, I didn't mean-!"
"Walking contradiction," he murmurs, staring at her, trying to peel apart her very soul, his eyes scraping against the intangible, trying to find something more. "God, you're so naive, doing that in front of me. Now I can't stop, not now."
Her legs hit the bed, and he pulls. She tumbles forward and lands onto his chest. The smell hits her like an iron weight, and she can no longer breathe. She gags as he pulls her up, listening to his biting chuckle.
"Do you smell my wounds, Violet?" He tugs her up again, and their eyes meet. She cannot see anything except a fire in their depths, and as soon as the embers touch her skin, she is consumed. The rain inside her skin is evaporated, and she burns as the sickness around him becomes hers.
"These wounds are wounds that your family gave me." His whisper is harsh, but the fire remains. "They're still there from that fateful evening when your father threw that damned car at me. And I fell, with metal and fire cutting and burning me. I was in Hell before I even really died, Violet." He grips onto her, and her breath hitches. "But when I thought everything was going to end- my only wish, my wish to die- was going to be granted…" His eyes spark. "You happened."
I wanted to die, but no, you wouldn't let me. You found me amongst the scrap metal and saved my damned soul." He smirks. "And then… you left me to wither as I contemplated my life and all of the horrors I have done and experienced." His jaw clenches, and he says slowly, sharply, "You made me realize how repulsive I truly am."
His hands go to her throat, and pressure is applied. Her vision becomes bleary as her already deprived lungs scream for air. But she cannot raise her hands to fight him because she is too enveloped in the flames of his passion to care.
She wants to burn.
"I should kill you," he whispers with a hiss, the glare fitting onto his face handsomely. "You did not save my life- you merely prolonged my death." He shakes her a little, a gurgle coming from her. "I've bled and stunk and screamed and even cried because you wouldn't let me die. You're an angel of death, and I hate you with every fiber of my being."
Darkness is sinking in on her black and white vision. Her head is throbbing, and a low buzz is beginning to grow.
And she cries. She cries because she had hurt him so.
Her lips move.
"Forgive me."
She hears him chuckle.
"No… I won't. Not until you forgive me."
He releases her, and she gasps, air filling her lungs as she falls forward, only to have her breath stolen once again by him and his lips.
He kisses her passionately, giving her no time to defend herself. He is holding her to him as he sweeps his tongue throughout her mouth, tangling his fingers in her hair.
"I hate you," he murmurs against her lips, his mouth going down to her neck. "I hate you so much, you stupid, stupid girl- God, you taste so good." He bites her neck, and she groans. "You such a child, and I'm a bastard for doing this, but I know there's a woman in you. I saw her, and I know she's there because she's the one who makes me suffer." He bites her again, wanting to devour her entirely. "I told you not to, and you did it anyway. I can't stop it now." He laughs. "I don't even know why I warned you. You deserve every last bit of this."
Everything is disappearing; clothes, smells, thought. All she can do is feel as he holds her close, his hands dancing across her, around her, skin and flesh meeting together as he enters her smoothly.
She closes her eyes, feeling the flames around her as he takes her further and further down into the tempest of ecstasy, her name swirling around her as he whispers her name.
The rain inside of her begins to fall once more.
"Forgive me."
The taste is just what she imagined it would be.
His arms are around her.
Sleep sounds so good.
Her body is tired and worn.
He made sure she knows how much he truly hates her.
He made sure she knows how much he truly loves her.
5:49.
"You saved me, you know," he murmurs. His voice is very tired, his words slurred. He has no strength left in him. She is the one who is holding his arms in place.
She can feel the darkness creeping up over the fading steam of their passion.
She makes sure her face is hidden so he cannot see the tears beginning to form.
"No I didn't. You would have survived without my help. You're too strong to die."
Her voice cracks. She is a child, and the dream is, if she says it, then maybe it will come true.
"Maybe." His reply is delayed.
She pushes her face closer to his chest. She can no longer smell the sickness, but she can feel it, just like she can feel his heartbeat slowing.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, a tear falling down her cheek.
He sighs, and she wants to cry with laugher when she hears his exasperation.
"No," he murmurs, his hand moving slowly upwards towards her head, brushing her hair slightly. "I already told you. Not until…"
He trails off, and he sighs again, but it only to breathe. It's getting harder for him now.
"I know," she sobs, trying to laugh because he's trying to be funny, but this isn't funny. It's horrible and she hates him so much for it. "I know."
He takes in a breath. "Then…"
He's slipping right through her fingers. She can feel it like cold silk, like her camisole when he pulled it over her shoulders. She pushes herself up, her womanly form caressing his chest as she leans down and kisses him, sinking into him when she feels his breath against her face.
"You're forgiven," she whispers with love.
He takes in breath, breathing in the rain.
The fire sinks, the embers cooling.
He looks to her, and he moves his lips.
"You're…"
He trails off, and she lies there, waiting for his response, knowing she won't ever get one.
But that is okay. She doesn't want to be forgiven.
Slowly, she sinks down onto his still form, trying to search for the flame that had scorched her so.
But all she can feel is the rain.
The clock disappears; time is no longer an issue.
He's gone.
His warmth fades as the morning light rises.
She closes her eyes. She doesn't want to see it. She wants the stormy night to remain with her forever.
She closes her eyes, reaching for the sleep she know is hiding. She finds it, and takes hold of it, wrapping it around them both, letting them sink together into the dreams she holds dear.
The dream is she will never wake up.
Maybe this one will come true.
Maybe…
A/N:
Whew. That was a toughie, but I needed it. I usually write one shots to jump start this brain 'o mine. Eh. Writer's block…. Eh.
Aaaaaaah! She's fourteen! I'm bad. Baaad. But it wouldn't work with her being older. Nope. But hey! I hope you enjoyed it anyway. I'd rather not hear flames about her age, but… eh. They will hold zero significance to me if you send them, so if you don't care if you waste time, then go ahead. Be my guest. Flame me. I DARE you! And I'll make sure I have an equally wonderful reply waiting for you… [insert evil laugh here].
Okie dokie! I'm off to have another adventure! (flies away)
~TS