A.N. Hello all, first i would like to apologize for my abrupt disappearance as you all know, life can be time consuming. Secondly this is a small onzie, something to get me back into writing, and of course being me its along the angsty side. And last, but certainly not least thank you to InevitablyWicked19, who always keeps me motivated and is always there to listen to my whining about writing and any idea i have.
Thank you all again,
Pokie
"Do you believe in hell?"
"Hm." I chuckle softly to myself. It's involuntarily, just as is the way my eyes travel along the extensive fracture in the concrete. It begins somewhere under the filthiness that is my shoe, spreading out as it weaves though dried and damp blood stains alike.
It should be such an easy question to answer just like; do you believe in God—do you believe in aliens-are you in love? They're not trick questions. There isn't normally a gray area, but yet I find myself skating along the dangerous edges of contemplation.
Do I believe in hell?
No. I had given up long ago the notions of a God ruled heaven and a devil ruled hell. Old beliefs falling to the wayside as my exploration into the world of science—the world of answers grew. Each night spent alone out in the cold struggling to make it through the day. Each name changed to hide myself from everyone until I was hiding even from myself. Each horrible thing that's happened stripping away another sliver of faith until there was nothing except a woman of science. Can't believe in a devil if you don't believe in a God, and thus heaven and hell-can't exist either.
My eyes travel back down along the fracture, I could say crack, but fracture seems so much more-fitting. My attention fixating on what was once white material with slivers of navy blue, now the blue is gone and all but flecks of white are too. Is it mud or blood swallowing up my shoe like quick sand? Both most likely, the latter being the most dominant I'm sure-if I'm being honest with myself.
Do I believe in hell?
Yes. Be a slave to an evolved species for almost a decade and tell me you don't. Fight alongside your makeshift family against things your nightmares couldn't conjure up and tell me you don't. Watch your family die one by one unable to do a damn thing about it and tell me that you don't. Watch them lowered into the ground knowing it should be you, and tell me that you don't. Look into the mirror every morning unsure of the eyes staring back at you, and tell me you don't.
My eyes travel up dark blue scrubs, my favorite used to be the turquoise ones-but these like the shadows I've grown accustom to, hide things better. Blue becomes a shiny silver, my legs becoming the edge of a table I've been lingering on. My hand releasing from a balled fist, the redness on my knuckles holding my attention for a second, but only a second. Fingertips lingering over various scalpels.
That seemed to be my problem now; lingering.
It wasn't the acts I had committed, or what I was about to do. No, once started it didn't matter anymore. Once started it wasn't anything other than muscle memory, very little thought went into it. Yet, I always seemed to linger beforehand. Lingering remnants of a conscious perhaps-or maybe parts of me that has already given up. Silently telling me there's no more need for this.
Whatever it may be, the second my hand wraps around the cool steal, index finger extended just enough to stop before the blade-it's gone. I slide off the table walking toward him like a lion after it's prey. Even after all this time, I don't think I've gained the prowess to convey that type of fear-but something about the way he stares me down tells me that he thinks I do.
"Do you believe in hell, Mr. Hashimoto?" I look up into his eyes, hands at my side. "It's an interesting question to ask someone like me, don't you think?"
My eyes travel up his arms to the chains wrapped around his wrists, and then hoisted around one of the lower beams from above. The blood trickling down his arms plenty, but his own doing. He shouldn't struggle so much. Though it's not like he would be in perfect health otherwise. Several cuts, broken ribs and various bones along with bruises and swelling. He shouldn't be such a disgusting excuse for a living being.
The sound of unoiled hinges scraping against each other pulls my attention. Kenzi looking at our guest for a brief second before looking back at me. She's lost her stomach for this months ago, but she'll stay until it's done out of loyalty. Out of loyalty to her-out of loyalty to me, after all, we're all we have left. Her stare tells me everything, she doesn't need to say a word. Sometimes I wonder if she was to ask me, to once and for all force me to make a choice-I wonder if I'd pick her. She won't ask me though, because I think she knows there is a chance I would.
She looks away and walks to the very back corner of the warehouse. Four cages, three full with the forth waiting for Mr. Hashimoto. She doesn't flinch as they jump at the bars, snarling like the wild animals they are. She stares at the empty one, and I know what she's thinking. I know because I've done the same. She's wondering if she belongs in there with them too.
Maybe we do.
Maybe in this world we were forced into—everyone does.
"You didn't answer my question Mr. Hashimoto, do you believe in hell?" I turn my attention back to him.
"You first."
"I believe in a hell. I believe in several actually, but do I believe in the hell? No more than I believe in the Easter Bunny."
"Interesting choice of words." He scoffs, blood spilling from his lips.
I can feel the way Kenzi holds her breath and undoubtedly stares at me. I wait for her to say something, yet she doesn't speak. I draw in a deep breath and let the comment pass me by, it wasn't the harshest of underhanded digs ever taken. I've grown accustom to these-people taking any shot they can. After the first fifty or sixty they tend to lose their sting, after all they're always the same ones.
"I believe only in one hell," He coughs out as I turn my back to him. I was right, Kenzi is staring at me with those disapproving eyes. "Tartarus."
"Lauren, we agreed-it's enough for today." Kenzi calls, but her voice is a distant echo now. It's amazing how much anger can change a person. It's amazing how much a person become fixated on one task so much that they lose sight of everything else.
"You know, they never say what happens to the heroes when they lose." I find myself taping the little blade against my leg, the tip sending a little prick of pain each time. "All of the literature and films, all the way back to the earliest mythology-the heroes always triumph. There's always victory—even when they lose. Real life though-its not like that is it?"
"Lauren, come on."
"I for the longest time, even when beaten down to my lowest point believed that. See, for the longest time we—the heroes did win. Sure, we lost along the way, but we always came out victorious. The good guys lived to fight another day. You get accustom to winning, and as it goes every gamble seems to get smaller and smaller because you just know you're going to win. After all-you are the heroes."
"Lauren, please."
"There really is no preparing for when you don't."
I take the four steps in, his body wiggles in the air as blood drips everywhere. I expect him to kick out, most do-he doesn't. I slip my fingers inside his belt, holding him firm as I bring the tip of the blade to his swollen flesh. So much anger-so much anger and there's nothing that I can do to calm it.
"I could kill you-I could torture you far worse than what Marcel did to you. I spent most of my life learning the ins and outs of the human body-the Fae as well. I could keep you alive for months—years if I really wanted to. That would make me no different than you and your caged brethren though, would it?"
"Fuck you!" He tries to jerk away, but he doesn't have enough strength.
"If I had half a mind—I would." I nod. "See I really have no thrust for blood, for pain-this world has become filled with more than enough of it." I let my scalpel gripping hand fall back to my side, eyes locked with his. "You asked me if I believe in hell, there's no way any living organism left can say they don't. Hell is what this world became in a matter of seconds for me-for my family—for the entire world. But most of all I believe in it because-" I chuckle through a clenched jaw, tears filling my eyes. "I watched-I watched my wife be sucked into a hell dimension. So yes, I do believe." I let go of his belt, and take a step back. "Now, make no mistake while I unlike Marcel do not wish to cause you pain—I will not hesitate to do so—because it's proven effective. It took me years of tears, and bloodshed and loss of morals to find out where she was-how to get there—and I'll be damned if I stop now."
"You-will never-never be able to free her."
"Watch me." I step back further as I hear the sound of the chains scraping against the metal of the beam-his body falling with a heavy thud. Footsteps quickly approaching as the gate behind me squeaks.
Marcel grabs him by the neck, dragging him away to the cell. Grunts and slurs blending together—from both men. I wasn't afraid of him, as big and violent as he is-never have I feared him. Maybe one would say it's just a lack of respect for mortality, or maybe it's more that despite what I do to stay alive I am still human. His dark and somewhat psychotic violence was directed in one place, and one place only; Fae. He has some dark story that justifies it, but then again who here doesn't? Besides, this little group I assembled was linked only in the shared fact that they didn't play with others. No one would mingle outside of the mission, because everyone has their own demons and no one wants anyone else poking around in their past. Most of all what drew me to them was that I didn't have to worry about them becoming family-no one ever tried.
I follow slowly behind, eye catching a glimpse of Kenzi as she walks toward the door-I'm losing her. I look back to Marcel as he kicks our guest a few more times for good measure before slamming the cage shut.
"We got Ming-Wi, you commin'?" He asks, barely looking at me. I just shake my head, and he walks off. There's something beautiful about the simplicity of our relationship. The best part? It never reminds me of Hale-or Dyson.
My eyes linger on the outline of Mr. Hashimoto's body, now huddled in the fetal position-they always revert to that. No matter how big or how strong. No matter how long it took to break, they always revert to that.
I'm not really here-at least that's what I like to tell myself.
Sometimes I pretend that it isn't really me doing these things I've done. I like to pretend something else has taken over and I'm just here for the ride because I'm still that girl who kept her mouth shut, going along with the flow. Other times, mostly in the beginning I'd pretend that none of this was real—just some nightmare. I had nodded off on the beach drinking some fruity drink I don't even like while watching Bo run around after our daughter. The sounds of their laughs lulling me into a sleep that is just plagued by nightmares of what would have happened had we lost. Other times I pretend I'm still up on that roof with her, and she's pouring her heart out to me while all I can do is imagine what would happen if we lose. Maybe if I get the words right this time I can get her run.
The reality is though—I'm not on a beach napping, I'm not some captive to another me, and I'm not back on that roof with her—begging her to run away. No, I'm right here where I've been for years trying to get my wife back. We did lose that night and despite the fact that it stares me in the face any time I turn on the television or step outside-I'm just refusing to give in.
After three years Dyson begged me to give her a grave, a tombstone somewhere near Hale's and Trick's. A place where they could go and mourn her, a way to say goodbye. A place where our daughter could feel like she was with her mother. A place where I could say goodbye to her and get a piece of mind. He swore up and down that it was too late, even if by some miracle we got her back, it wouldn't be her anymore.
He just gave in—that's all it was.
Nevertheless, empty grave or not-here I am.
No empty coffin or tombstone with loving words etched in will ever give me piece of mind, because to me, she isn't dead. She's still alive—fighting to get back, because that's my wife. That's my Bo. Stubborn beyond the point of belief. Stronger than anyone should be capable of ever being. A fighter who never learned how to give up. A woman who loves her family more than life itself. A mother who promised that she would never let her daughter grow up without her. A wife who promised me forever.
At the time I know Dyson was meaning well, doing what he thought Bo would want him to do. To be the hero and take care of what shambles were left. To pull me from the darkness, keep Kenzi strong and protect our daughter in a way that I can't. He did his job, he would have made her proud. I still dream sometimes of random moments he shared with my daughter, but they always end the same way-with the memory of his death.
I no longer dream of Hale's or Trick's or Vex's. No longer do I dream of the deaths of anyone else who we've lost along the way. Family and friends lost one by one-though the night I lost my wife, quite a few fell then.
I let my head hang, the rare but deadly mixture of guilt and reminiscing taking it's toll. The only way I've managed to make it through this last year was by putting it all away in some metaphorical box in the corner of my mind. Yet, today I can't seem to stop it from seeping through the edges.
I suppose I should have expected it, it is the anniversary of her-disappearance after all.
I toss the scalpel on a tray as I walk toward the door, mind clearing of the heavy fog of nostalgia. Sounds of real life filling my ears; growls, slurs and thuds of bones wrapped in flesh hitting against metal bars in an ill-attempt to free themselves. For a brief second I feel my heart speed up, that all too familiar feeling of fear spreading through me like wildfire.
Then it's gone-and I remember who I am now.
One hand lingers on the light switch, the other holding open the door as I look back into the warehouse. I see everything; cages, blood stains, tables, tarps, tool boxes, trays, autopsy tables-everything to make someone's nightmare. Yet, at the same time-I see nothing. The sound of laughter echoing down the hall peaking my attention, reminding me it's time to shove everything back in that little box and pretend that I'm okay.
I flip the light switch, and let the weight of the door do the work for me as I walk down the hall toward the sound of something almost foreign. Keyword: almost. I'm good at faking these type of laughs. These are the kind you do when you don't want people to know you're broken. These are the kind you do to keep the peace in close quarters. These are the kind that fool people into thinking that in this moment-you're okay. Dirty jokes, war stories and antidotes about either-never anything personal.
I can deal with this.
My steps slow, just before I'm in the ghost of light overrunning into the hall. Marcel or Kenzi having left the door open for me. The toes of my shoes right on the line between the light and the shadows-I'm lingering again.
Once I get her back-then I can break.