I haven't updated in quite a while, and I probably won't. I just felt like putting this little piece up, though I might tweek it a little. I really enjoyed it enough and felt like it was ready to be put up, and hopefully enjoyed by others. I'm not looking for any real feedback, so review if you're that compelled to.
Disclaimer: I own nothing Escaflowne related.
Evil's Wound
The memories were slipping and falling out of line, just like the blood slipping from his lax wrists and pooling by the ornate chair legs.
He let out a laugh that reverberated off his chambers walls and bounced around muffled and weird in his ears. His abrupt stop and acute sense of hearing led him to focus only on the silence of his darkened room. His window which once let light pour in full of hope and bounding with content was covered over with layers of dark, plum-colored drapes.
His mind searched the darkened room, desiring to know its depth and mysterious secrets, but found little interest in taking the time to decipher the code of darkness. Instead his mind wandered familiarly around in the worst and darkest parts of itself, wondering who he was, and what he was, and what in the hell he was doing…
His mind's voice sounded so drugged and again, strange.
No, he was talking to himself. He felt the last slip of a syllable slip clumsily over his chapping lips. Thing were deteriorating, draining, and, he closed his eyes and felt the most intoxicating feeling of slumber surge through him, slipping away from his beautiful, immaculate fingertips. The blood would dry under his perfect fingernails. But he had dealt with dirty hands before.
What? His mind mentally searched itself again finding no answer. How could he remember bloody hands before, but couldn't remember his own identity?
He remembered Celena; a smile spread over his evenly-toned skin and brightened his half-dead expression. She was a rival to his own beauty, such an angel, and…she wasn't here anymore.
His smile drained away. She was taken away from him…by someone.
A match stick head ripped across his inner-mind, the sudden force of chemical contact causing pain to ignite his realization about Celena and himself. His body tried to straighten itself, but found it difficult yet exasperatedly attempted to right itself again, sit erect, and end the flow of blood from his now congealed and jagged bloody wrists.
He couldn't stop this, it was too late. That bastard that had personally shamed him so many times had done this. That beast was responsible.
That damnation—his pained eyes looked up angrily at the light which flooded through his chambers, lighting up his furniture, possessions, and the pools of bright, fresh blood spilt haphazardly onto the surrounding floor around him.
"I thought you'd be dead by now." The boy standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the light flowing from the window behind him, whined out in disappointment. A soft giggle came from him as his lips curled, "No matter, you will be soon."
He whirled around and prepared to leave with the door open and light still entering the room. "Oh!" he laughed, back stepping gracefully to glance at the room's occupant. His smile chilled the soul of the victim. He licked his lips slowly with thought and his burning eyes dangerously narrowed. "Hope you enjoyed the rope I restrained you with and glass in your wrists; because that's all you've even been for me. Even Celena agrees," his muttered darkly, leaning into the room, "And we both always hated you for that".
Allen flinched, his eyes shutting automatically and feeling the caressing lure of rest again. By the time he managed to open his eyes to mere slits, the shadow in the doorway was gone.
Even with the little life in him he still managed to uphold the despair altering and cracking his voice as crystalline tears rained over his face, "That antichrist!"