This piece was requested by Zoni and I do hope you enjoy it. I love writing Grell for all occasions and this story was no exception
The textured ceiling was too plain. Drab and white, the ceiling was the only part of the room that Grell had not thought about smearing with deep crimson. Grell lay limply on his back with his knees bent over the edge of the bed. That was as far as he had managed to get before the shock of that day had caused his body to go almost entirely numb. Staring at the blank expanse of ceiling, he wished he had allowed drips of red to dry on the tips of the protruding texture. That would have given the bedroom more character, or at least something more interesting for Grell to look at. A ceiling crying blood was much more interesting than this unadorned nightmare.
Grell's attempts to continue concentrating on anything but his thoughts did not last long. He had only been home, laying there in his large and overstuffed bed for ten minutes, but the despair weighing on his mind and heart lowered him so much that he was unable to focus on anything else. He should not have felt this way. For once he had done his job satisfactorily and on time. Even William had commented on Grell's timeliness, but that was what had led to heartbreak. Grell refused to replay the event in his mind. He would never have a chance; he knew that with utter certainty now. That had been William's ultimate rejection and it had left Grell utterly mortified before the entirety of the London division.
He brought a hand up to cover his face. Why did this have to happen? Did it have to happen? Was there really nobody for him? The thoughts assaulted Grell's senses and he bit his lip to try and keep himself from falling deeper. He moved his hand to clutch at his chest. The pain was unlike anything he had ever inflicted or endured before, and the strain it caused on his mind and body was nearly unbearable. He reluctantly let out a small whimper before the taste of blood caught his attention. The pointed teeth had sliced into his lower lip where he had bitten it. Rolling over, Grell spat the small mouthful of blood out onto the bed sheets.
Perhaps activity would be better for his state of mind. Grell dragged himself up to a sitting position, but allowed his head to hang in despair. Gloves slid from his slender hands as he tugged at them followed by the red coat that he shrugged from his shoulders. Grell forced his unwilling body to stand, leaving the garments in a small pile at the end of the bed. The heels of his shoes dragged on the carpeted floor as he moved, trancelike, toward the bathroom. He did not want to think of anything, but his twisted mind refused to give him even that much.
He struck no light as he stood before the washbasin and the gold-framed mirror. The half light that illuminated only parts of the right side of his face suited his feelings at that particular moment. The green eyes behind the red spectacles seemed to glow as Grell gazed at his visage. A few, small spots of blood had dried where he had bitten his lip. He bared his pointed teeth at the reflection he saw. Is this really how others saw him? Some hair slid in front of his face, blocking a portion of his view in the mirror. He examined one of the flawless red nails on his right hand that rested upon the basin. His image made up most of his being; not a professional, but a physical image. What did he have if those around him did not think of him as beautiful? Was it such an unattainable desire? Grell wanted to be seen, truly seen, for whom he was and yet no one would give him the time of day. Grell saw his reflected image scowl as bangs were brushed away from his face with a hand. Those fools did not realize who they were dealing with. He was Grell Sutcliff and he would be the one to decide who would avoid him and who would not.
Drawing his fist back, he struck at the mirror before him, shattering it. Grell's scowl altered to a wicked grin as he observed his now skewed reflection. The damage was so much like his own personality and demeanor, the cracks spreading out from a central point. The smallest pieces could get stuck in skin without one being any the wiser, while large pieces were out in the open ready to cut any stray limb foolish enough to touch the edge. Grell looked interestingly at the shards of glass protruding from his knuckles. Sliding the glass out of his hand, he enjoyed the self-induced pain as he slowly removed each piece and Grell watched in lazy amusement as thick lines of blood trailed slowly down the back of his hand. The shards made a tinkle of noise as they were dropped, one by one, into the washbasin. Grell again looked at his hand to watch as the blood dried in dark trails and decided that it would be a shame to wipe away such a wonderful substance.
Grell's dark mood soon made him grow bored with staring at the damaged flesh. He desired some stimulation, something to comfort the dark, encroaching thoughts. Grell left the blood-stained glass where it lay and worked his way to the kitchen. The exertion of punching the mirror seemed to have sapped all of his energy. His limbs were heavy and forced him to lean against walls for support as he moved down the small hallway. The house was eerily silent. Grell had never taken notice of just how empty his home felt, or perhaps he had not entirely minded until that moment.
Upon reaching the small kitchen, he opened the wine cupboard and inspected the bottles. Only a moment passed before he withdrew a glass and one of the older bottles of Sangiovese, which was certain to accompany his acidic mood nicely. At the moment, the sofa was a much more agreeable place to settle rather than a hard, wooden chair in the kitchen. Grell maneuvered around his furniture into the semi-darkness of the living room where evening light had left all of the various shades of red looking dull and muted of their actual vibrant hues.
As Grell settled himself on the leatherback sofa, he released the cork from the bottle with his thumb before pouring himself a glass. He drank two glasses of the red wine in quick succession, then a third with great deliberation, feeling the alcohol as it slipped down his throat. Grell leaned back and lifted the glass up to eyelevel. Very little light was left, but a few particles reached the red liquid from the window and made it give off a dim shine. Grell did not really see what he held before him as his eyes stared through the glass and wall beyond. His thoughts began to flow more freely as the alcohol took effect and loosened the tension in his mind.
Grell considered the general populous that worked in the London division. Most of them at least knew his name and, of those, nearly all recognized him. Grell knew he was charming and many respected him as a powerful shinigami even if he had a knack for trouble. However, Grell also knew that the idiots he worked with would deride him openly when they thought he was not there to witness the mockery. He was smart, but he rarely achieved credit for that. The bastards believed that he could not see, but no one was as great an actress as he. His façade was flawless. Few truly believed that he managed a higher average at the academy than did William. William. The thought brought a returning pain in his chest that caused Grell to break focus and quickly set his unfinished glass of wine down on the coffee table. Grell blinked several times to adjust to the complete darkness of the room which he had not noticed while he had withdrawn into himself.
All at once Grell felt trapped. The walls of his home seemed to close in upon him and Grell wanted nothing more than to escape. Grell wanted someone to run to and who would allay all his inner fears, but no such person existed. He had to get out, if only for a moment. Quickly, Grell rose from the sofa, walked the few feet to his front door and opened it, welcoming the freedom of the outdoors. The cool night air washed over him making his head swim slightly. Shutting the door behind him, Grell took a couple steps to his right. The light breeze gave off a crisp scent and gently brushed the lustrous red hair away from Grell's body. Leaning against the wall, Grell folded his arms and propped the heel of his left shoe on the wall behind him.
Green eyes gazed upon the glittering sky of stars. Grell saw each pinprick of light as a representative of every dream he cherished. Night was the time for dreams but dawn would always come to sweep those dreams away. Sadness crept into Grell's being. Deep down he knew the truth of how he was more often considered one to be dealt with rather than accepted. He forced his presence on everyone instead of being willingly welcomed. Grell had thought that was going to change soon. Grell thought of the one he had believed would be the one to help him. That belief had been ripped from him and was now completely gone. Against his wishes, Grell felt a single tear slip from the corner of his eye. The solitary drop traced a salty, wet line down Grell's unnaturally somber face. He did not bother to wipe the tear away and allowed it to fall, slipping from him to descend into its own darkness just as his whole being had fallen that day.
A sudden gust of wind made Grell shiver and come back to what little senses he still managed to possess. Several joints popped when he shifted from his position against the wall to reenter the house. Grell's hand closed around the brass handle, as though still in a dream, and opened the door into the familiar warmth of his home. As he slid the door shut, Grell pressed his forehead against the wood and tried to think of something, anything else. With trembling fingers, he reached for the little knob on the handle and, as he turned it, the lock clicked as the mechanisms slid into place. Grell sank down to the floor and pulled he knees up to his chest. He would lock his heart away, forever.