A/N:
Ok so first things first: the image for this story.
I got it off google images, but it was probably deviant-art born. It's by this amazing artist called palnk and I seriously recommend you check our their stuff. PM if you want a link ^^
Back on track: Hi there. I have been promising a rewrite of my story 'Never Let Me go' for what seems like ages now. And I've just been so busy that it's been impossible! Seeing as the original was never completed, I decided to post it as a new story.
Clearing some stuff up beforehand: Alice x Jasper. It's not finished but it does have a rough plot outline. The chapters will be about this length. I think. Never shorter than three and a half. There will be sex. Probably.
So, I hope you like it.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the story line.
Chapter 1: Rewritten
Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.
It was like a pulsing baseline reverberating in her ears – it was all she could think of, all she could see, all she could smell.
Of course, it didn't exactly help that she was covered in the stuff.
She was huddled, alone, in the corner, as far away from the bodies as possible. The bones on her spine were pushed up against the wall, her hands scrabbling against the dusty bare floorboards. Tears fell, marking the uniform they had forced her to wear. What was left of it, anyway.
Every drop of salt water diluted the red staining her white top and bottoms, and the way she saw it, that could only be a good thing. The more she cried, the more blood would be washed away. So she went on, quietly sobbing and shakily running her thin fingers through her choppy black hair as she attempted to stifle the rising hysteria.
The other inmates were still locked in their rooms, and consequently had no idea what was going on. If they'd heard the screams they would have assumed it was a fellow patient who was making them. Not the nurses and the doctors as they ran, terrified and futilely.
It was still hard for her to make out what had happened – when she'd 'woken up' she had been halfway through tearing out Sam's throat. That had probably been what had tipped her over the edge; Sam was the only person in that godforsaken place she'd remotely cared about or liked. He was the only one who didn't poke fun at her when she was doubled over in pain as she was 'seeing things'. It was a tentative friendship – barely there – but the only one she had had for at least two years. One she'd treasured and worked at. She'd even gone as far as to tell him about the honey haired man, the one constant in her splitting headaches and wavering vision.
And then she'd suddenly been drinking his blood, like an animal, bits of skin stuck in her teeth and the hot, salty liquid gushing down her throat.
And the worst thing?
That she'd liked it.
Some part of her, the part that hated all of them, was relishing the power, feeding on their screams and pain. It had come out of nowhere, and it wasn't until much later that she'd felt remorse for the men and women she had killed. They had families and children at home: people who loved them. More than could be said for her.
She couldn't even think properly about the sick fascination with blood part of it. Too much of her was too busy trying in vain to wrap her head around what she was hearing/seeing/smelling/touching. It felt like it had when they'd given her too much morphine when trying to subdue her last April. But much much worse. Better. Different. She could see every single speck of dust in the air if she tried. She could hear the sounds of cars and their horribly loud engines, and the dull thud thud thud of the people inside.
And just like that, her throat was on fire. There was no prelude or warning – one minute it had been a low ache (she'd thought she'd injured it, or it was something to do with the blood), and the next it was suddenly all she could do not to throw herself out of the window, smash through the car roof and squeeze that heart in her hand. She could feel her muscles tensing for the jump, feel that sweet sweet relief of the red–
'No!' It was a little choked gasp that made it's way out of her mouth, but it had happened so quickly that it shocked her out of her craze. She wasn't aware of her lips shaping the vowels – literally in an instant she had gone from the thought of speech to actually talking.
She whimpered again, guessing that massively improved reflexes should be added to the list of why she was yet again a 'freak'. But this time she could agree with them – she might have been normal, weird but normal, before but there was no way she was anything but a freak now.
Earlier, she'd caught sight of her eyes in a shard of glass, broken in her massacre, and nearly attacked it before she realized it was her own reflection. Those were her cold, red eyes. Her blood covered grin.
She was right to have been locked up.
Seeing people that didn't exist was bad enough, as was seeing where people had lost things. That had made her friends. Friends who beat her up when the nurses pretended not to look, for stealing things she hadn't stolen. In fact, she'd had a missing tooth before (a punch in the face had knocked a couple wobbly), which was now miraculously there again, albeit covered in blood.
Pretty soon she'd learnt not to mention the missing objects and the visions, but the damage had been done. Her only comfort was Sam – another harsh sob wracked her body at the though – and the man.
Every now and again, especially when she had been beaten up or name called, or was feeling down, he would appear. She didn't even have to close her eyes, she'd just see him in her mind. It was much like it had been before her family had forced her into the asylum; seeing things before they happened. But it had never been this strong before. And never so clear.
However much it made her face heat up and turn red, she had to admit it: he was beautiful. The most beautiful man she had ever seen in her life. Even Dr. McCartney that all the girls swooned over (but she thought looked a bit creepy as he was always staring at her chest) looked like a horse compared to this man.
She'd tried to describe him once to Sam, but ended up failing miserably and he was convinced she was making it up – they hadn't talked for days afterwards. But that was okay, because she saw him for those three days of loneliness.
He had hair like honey and sun and wheat – tousled and it stuck up at odd angles. But she thought it was cute. His skin was pale, the palest she had ever seen on a human before. It looked incredibly silky and was almost shimmering in a way that made her want to smooth her palm over it and see if the glitter stuck to her hand.
She'd told Sam he had a face 'like an angel' and it was probably true. It was perfect and symmetrical and delicate at the same time. But…his eyes.
They were all warm and liquid like treacle. If treacle was red. She was scared of her own eyes – that much she knew, so why was she so at home when she was looking into his? They were almost the same colour, his red just a little bit more brown and faded than hers, and so much more…lonely.
If you asked her how she knew, she wouldn't be able to answer. She could just tell.
She ached to alleviate some of that bitterness present in the crimson depths. It was hard – knowing he didn't exist.
And yes – he did have light scars peppering his throat and chest, but it didn't detract from his perfectness. In fact, it made him seem more whole.
Safe, was the word she was looking for. He made her feel safe. And safety was the one feeling she held most precious to her – the one feeling she had never experienced from anyone but him, ever.
But her honey haired, red eyes stranger had forsaken her. She'd begged and begged in her head for him to appear and show her his daily life like he usually did – anything, just a glimpse of him! But she saw nothing but the bodies which had been there for the past several hours.
A noise startled her out of her sobbing, and without thinking about it, her lips drew back and she hissed. It scared her, to realize that her body had moved on it's own, but the noise of footsteps thudding up the creaky wooden stairs scared her even more. Her body was as tense and frozen as the one lying on the ground, and she kept waiting to hear her heartbeat in her ears. It never came – hell, she couldn't even feel it in her chest.
The footsteps (which she now could identify as four pairs of hard, leather boots) echoed closer.
Don't breathe in. Don't breathe in. She repeated as a mantra, chanting it softly to herself in her mind. She heard her heartbeat, and with a palpable relief she allowed herself a small smile. She didn't know why it was so important that she could hear her own heart, but it was getting louder now, more reassuring–
No.
It wasn't hers.
The door flew open with a startling crash, and Alice was on the other side of the room before she knew it, her teeth throbbing with anticipation.
'What's going on 'ere then?' A thick London accent exclaimed, the mouth hidden underneath a bushy moustache. The director of the asylum. His piggy eyes took in grey-white lumps decorating the room, and his face started to turn red.
God it was like asking her if she wanted to drink him.
It's not like killing him would be a waste. This man was known to take the little girls, never older than about thirteen, from the asylum for a day or two. By the time they were returned, they wouldn't speak, or eat, or do anything but sit on their beds staring blankly into space. Everyone knew what he did to them, and inevitably they mysteriously disappeared after a few months.
He was a sick, sick bastard.
But Alice was better than that. It was almost laughable, to say that after killing so many, but she didn't want to end the life of one more person. Even if they deserved to die. She just didn't have the energy: what did life hold for her anyway? The occasional glimpse of her stranger? Maybe that was worth living for when she hadn't destroyed so many families. Not now though.
She let a sick cry bubble up her throat and squeeze out from her lips, alerting him to her presence. Shaking and white, she closed her eyes, hearing his roars of 'bitch' and 'monster'. She. Didn't. Care.
She heard him fumbling. She heard a click as the safety was pushed off. And she even heard the scrape of the gunpowder lighting. Even when the gun was fired, she could have moved, gotten out of the way.
But Alice, limbs all bundled up together, huddled in the corner, just wanted to die.