I don't own Torn. If I did, he'd have a bigger part in the games.
This is unbeta'd. I'm sorry if it sucks!
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Closer
Summery: The relationship they had was anything but normal.
Maybe he should have said something when he came home one night, and walked in on her barely dressed, and covered in gushing cuts.
Or maybe he should have said something when he noticed that she was drawing with the blood that oozed from said cuts.
And, he probably should have said something when the thing she was drawing was her mother.
Well, "Woulda, Coulda, Should never helped anyone", as she always said.
But still, he always thought he should have said something when he walked in on her doing the odd things she often how could he? She was so scared of doctors, so scared of being thrown into a padded room, that she begged him not to say anything.
"Let me take care of it, it's my problem" She would whimper. He would point out that she didn't always have to bottle up her problems, but she would just shake her head, and say the same thing.
"Don't worry about it. I've got it under control."
Control. Yea right.
Control didn't mean drawing pictures with the blood you scooped off your mutilated breast. Control didn't include sticking your hand on hot pan, and leaving it there until the smell of burning flesh stained the apartment's carpets (it took them a month to get the smell out of the carpet.)
Control wasn't crawling into a corner nearly every night and bawling about the past.
That what he had tried to brush it off as: that past.
Well, the past had a funny way of springing up at you when you least expect it.
There were days where she was normal. Where she could talk, and laugh, and joke around. But one could always tell when a dark streak was around the corner. A "gunky" as she called it: "Oh, nothing but a bad gunky, leave it be." (he didn't even know what a "gunky" was. And, honestly, after all he had seen, he didn't want to.)
A "bad" gunky.
That's what she called the cuts and burns on her arms and legs. It's what she called the carved words on her inner thigh. When he would point them out, she would smile and say:
"Bad Gunky. Had to get it out."
Liar.
He knew where half the scars were from. She had told him where half of them were from.
Mommie dearest.
That bitch had turned his lover into the frightened girl she was.
Lover. What a funny word.
The first time they had had sex, it had been a fluke. They were drunk, and it was easier for both.
The next time, not so much. As it turns out, getting raped with a knife daily as a child had turned her entrance into one giant scar. So, there had been pain. Considerable pain.
Enough pain for her to yell out in agony, and push him off, as she bleed on the bed sheets.
She had been weeping, and he nearly lost his cool. But she had grabbed his hand, and pulled him close, and asked him to stay.
And he had, gladly. A few minutes later, they were at it again, slower, and the night ended up just as planned. Maybe even better.
(But, to this day, they can't have sex without her bleeding, if only a little bit. "It doesn't hurt" she said at one point, when, he looked down at the blood between her legs.)
And thus, Torn was now caught in the little web that he had entwined himself in. She was his drug, he was her rock, and together, they made for an interesting pair. He was cool, strict, and no bullshit. She was quiet, shy, horribly frightened of anything, a little dumb, but rather friendly.
And not one to look like a total nutjob.
No, he didn't call her a nutjob. He never thought low of her, not even on her worst nights. Not even on the nights he awoke with her on his chest, a knife stuck at his throat.
Because on those nights, she was always crying. She was just scared; she never wanted to hurt him. And she never did, she wasn't strong enough.
How could she? She had little twigs for arms. And even though she worked as a mechanic, she could never win in a battle of strengths.
Not to say that she wouldn't defend herself. Torn could swear that she was part muse, or snake or something, but the way she moved her body was just plain unnatural at times. He had never met anyone who could fit in suitcases, at least comfortably
Those were the times that surprised him.
For example, one evening, they were playing a one sided version of "hide and go seek" (She had freaked out about something and had run off before he could find her). He spent three hours searching for her around his apartment (even when they were in the same room, she could hide from him in the strangest places) and he finally found her, bundled up and fast asleep, in a suitcase that just happened to have in the apartment.
He hadn't had the heart to wake her. So, he dragged the suitcase next to his bed, flopped down onto his musty pillow and went to sleep.
When the morning came around, she had somehow found her way next to him in bed, unscathed, and with not a mark on her.
He kissed her on her forehead, and she sighed in content, and snuggled closer to him. Then he went back to sleep, her soft snoring (it sounded suspiciously like purring, he always thought) lulling him back to sleep.
She was an oddity. But, when he thought about it, so was he. And they just seamed to…fit. Like peanut butter and jelly, or hot cocoa and marshmallows (undoubtedly, he was the hot cocoa. Despite all appearances, she was actually very cold to the touch. She liked to call it: permanent frostbite) they could just went together.
He had lost her trust when he sent her to the asylum. She wouldn't even let him touch her, and the second time that he visited her, she attacked him with a piece of glass.
And, then, she was sent to Elysian Asylum.
It was three months. Three months before he heard gained any contact from her. And. When he finally did, it was at the Asylum, after…well, she never liked to talk about it. Something went down in the Asylum, and she and Jak (yes, he was in there with her too. Only a matter of time, he often thought) were forced to fight their way out.
She didn't even speak to him when they took her to the hospital. He rode with her in the ambulence, and they sat (or, in her case, lay) in silence.
He waited by her door as she went in for surgery (something stuck in her gut from that whole fandango at the asylum. He wasn't a doctor, he really couldn't say)
He sat by her bed and waited for her to wake up. The guilt was so overwhelming, so painful he thought he was going to be sick.
It only got worse when she opened her eyes. She had snarled, and then screamed at him to "get out"
Then she threw a vase of flowers at him.
Despite her bum eye, Torn had to admit. The girl was a pretty good shot.
He stood in the hallway all night, his head still bleeding from the shot. Jak (who had recovered faster then her) told him that he would talk with her.
He did.
A few moments later, she called him in. And, on unsteady feet, she stumbled to him, and pulled him into the biggest hug such a small woman could pull off.
Forgiveness…it was like water after a dry spell. He lapped it up, thirsty for her regained affection. It took them a while to get back to where they once were. And even then, it was…different. Closer, almost.
The night they returned to his apartment, they had sex, long, slow, and much more. And, as they lay there, hazed by previous acts, she explained everything. Her birth, her heritage, her mother.
She giggled when he ground his teeth. "Funny, it's like you hate my mother more then I do!" She gently stroked his hair.
He really sanded down his teeth when she explained the room.
"She stuck…knives in me…down there, you know. That's why I bleed so much. Bt it wasn't only knives, it was other stuff. I can't even remember, but I know it hurt. And I couldn't do anything about it, she had me tied up. She would say "This is what the boys will do to you, when they see you. Their all horny bastards They'll stick things in you, and fuck you, and hurt you"
"The…(she coughed at this point, trying to piece the words together, to make the story a little less…horrific) bag was the worst. I don't even know how, but she would stick this thing in me, and then drag me to the old grand piano we had, and play these enourmous symphonies, and tell me "Hold your water, you little brat, you little fucker."
But, of course, I couldn't. I mean, I was barely 5, how could I? Bitch."
Then, she burst into tears. He consoled her, and she went on, continuing her horrific tales of her past.
"Not all of it was bad though. My Mamia, my grandma…oh, god, if only you could have met her, she would have loved you! She loved everybody… and I loved her. It's so funny to think that such an evil woman came from such a sweet, loving old lady…
But, Moma was sick…much sicker then we wanted to belive…And in the end…
She broke off. And for a few moments, she couldn't speak anymore.
The past always comes back.
She continued again, and didn't stop until she was finished. And finally, there were no more secrets between them. Time was just too short.
The past is the past, and it will always be there, no matter how much you try to ignore it, no matter how much you try to "move on." You never really "move on" such things, though. They stay with you, and you are forever prejudice against such things.
Still, it's good to have someone you can count on for support. She was his drug, he was her rock, and together, they made a very strange couple indeed.
Torn gently stroked her shoulder, her black hair splayed across his chest and the pillow. She purred into his skin, her breath cool.
He had a tendency to watch. She just looked so innocent when she slept, so peaceful.
He buried his head in her neck, breathing in her sent. She twitched, then relaxed when she rembered who it was. Her heads came up around his head, and she began to stroke his hair.
"Good night, Torn." She whispered.
"Night, Maex."
And you guys thought it was Ashelin…
Before there was Maex the daughter, (from 'I'm Not to Well'), there was Maex the OC. You can see a bio of her on my DA, in my scraps, titled: Maex and Kahn.
As you might see, it's referring to something that had happened at her asylum. It's also on my DA, titled: ASYLUM.
Hope you all enjoyed!