TITLE: Leukophobia (Fear of the Color White)
AUTHOR: Zeda (the BLK Kitti)
SERIES: Original (partly inspired by Bloody Roar for Playstation)
RATING: R
GENRE: Dark, Gross (original)
PART: 1/1
WARNINGS: Some graphic violence, and overly descriptive summaries of the body being torn-apart. Parental discretion is advised
DISCLAIMER: Kyo is mine. Do not steal him or say he's yours or I shall kill you. ^_^" 'Kay?
Comments go to Zeda at BKoe101725@aol.com
MY SITE: http://www.geocities.com/zeda_chan
*
I'm sorry, Imouto-chan*.
I'm sorry I lied. . .
That's all that can go through my mind as they lead me down the immaculate white halls again, to the Room. They've taken me here, at least three times a week, every week of every month of every year. . . since I was eleven. Every day that they took me into the Room, I'd lose another little piece of myself.
But. . . I've long run out of pieces.
I do their bidding, no question asked. They lay me down on operating tables and examine me, try to figure out what makes me tick. They give me shot after shot after shot, IVs and spinal taps, take samples of every bit of me they can get.
At first I screamed and cried; had nightmares every night and even during the day, in waking moments. . . And then as time passed I felt less and less human. These people in their white coats. . . they've stolen my soul, slowly, chunk by bleeding chunk, as the years passed me by.
It doesn't feel like time passes. . . Everything here's so horribly, chillingly white. So empty. . . I watch the floor in front of me, my vision tunneling, watching the white fade into white and my pale shoeless feet as I pad down the hall. My skin seems dark compared to this snow-haze whiteness, but the guards paralleling me always wear black.
Thick clopping black boots that resonate thunder up and down the halls. This, in compare to my small, pale, quiet steps. Like a ghost, drifting between two armored sentinels. Dark and shining guns and straps of bullets make their clink-clink sound, and almost eclipsing the boots it echoes through my hollow eyes and the hollow halls.
A-64s. They're carrying them wrong.
They've taught me, from the first day, for every day that I wasn't brought to the Room, how to use guns. They've been drilled into me ceaselessly, and day by day as I kill live targets. . . I grow closer and closer to these weapons.
I'm so alone. . . I must be going insane, calling these tools of death my friends. . . They never question me when I sit quietly with my guns during breaks, the only things not using me, and coo to them softly. Do I dream that they'll respond? No... They'll still be cool grey metal things that can't offer me warmth or love, but they're all I have.
All I. . .
And I still, frozen stiff as we stop outside the door to the Room. Even now, after years of coming here, I fear it. . . this purest white of white Room. This huge, domed, auditorium-like room, with the bar of darkened windows and I can see them watching me. . .
The dreadful feeling of my chest dropping-out as the guards shove me into the Room is present now as I stumble forward, pitching to the white floor. I slowly push myself up, and lift my head. There, like a dark pool of blood framing the thankful off-white of cream, I see my reflection in the mirror. Dark red hair like blood drying on white floors, hollow eyes like gold starting to grow-over with moss in a darkened temple ruin. Always my own hair and eyes are the only color other than black and white. Even when I bleed I thank whatever blind deity should be listening that it's not white.
The popping sound as the speakers turn on gets my attention.
"Specimen A293K, please stand in the designated spot, facing the panel." The flavorless voice echoes calm in the huge circular Room, and silently I oblige, standing on the white-on-white spot I've always stood. So familiar this spot is, they don't need to mark it with the blue 'X' anymore.
I face the panel, perfectly stoic, but I know what's coming and it makes my heart pound at the cage of my ribs, trying to escape me. I hear the whirring, and I feel the presence drop down behind me. I bow my head slightly, exposing the back of my neck to it. I don't have to, and I don't want to turn around and face the huge, automated needle. I close my eyes and bite my lip, prepared for the pain that will always come.
The needle sinks into the base of my neck, searing a flaming dart of pain through the paper-thin flesh, into the crest of the bone that lies parallel to my collarbone. I bite into my lip deeply, to the point that it bleeds, determined not to cry-out as it sinks still deeper, then a tear rolls down my pale cheek as the plume of chemical is injected. It feels like acid, or fire, coursing out in pulsating streaks through my veins, burning in my blood and yet searing cold down through the core of my spine.
They give me this injection every time I enter the Room. Animal hormones they usually say, or 'GACs' or something else... I don't know what 'GACs' are, but I heard the guards saying once that it was short for 'Genetic Alteration Chemicals' or 'Genetic Addition Chemicals', or something like that. . .
In any case, it works fast. The needle is suddenly wrenched from my neck and retracts from me and I stand perfectly still, a dribble of blood running from my bleeding lip down to my chin and dripping glorious red onto the immaculate white floor. I shiver, vision swimming as I start to feel the rippling in my body. The bones starting to shift...
It happens very rapidly after the shot, and the pain comes and I can't hold back any more. I fall to my knees, wailing and clutching at myself.
My whole body's burning. . . !
My back rips open and muscles are ripped and destroyed, bones cracking and shifting. I see some bloody shards of my breaking bones fly past my face and skip across the white floors, streaking it red as if I've exploded, and I look up to the mirrors and see the hideous deformity I'm becoming. My legs rend and split, one veering off and becoming like the tail of a snake before cracking and reforming, splitting and rending again.
I cry out in agony, feeling my body ripped-up like a useless paper doll, feeling blood flush hot and liquid from my wounds and over metamorphosing flesh, and jolts of pain and chemical jabbing through me like thousands of icy, sharp needles directed at all my weaknesses.
My vision swims, completely overtaken by the agony, and my jaw clicks before being torn away, crushed and then replaced again. I form a muzzle, long and dog-like, my eyes bulge hideously before shifting. It seems to consider forming a beak for a moment, the bone jutting out of my face and forming the hook of some air raptor, and then decides on the muzzle, cracking and snapping. More bones fly, pinkish marrow quivering like opaque jelly on the hellish white floors, and I have a muzzle again.
Everything twists and snaps and my eyes drift skyward, tears rolling from them freely, never touching human flesh as they slide down my cheeks.
It hurts. . . so bad. . .
I'm unable to cope anymore, but this body seems incapable of the sobs that well in my chest. No escape, no salvation, no redemption. My gaze rolls, if reluctantly, to the mirrors. . . and it's hideous.
Such teeth... they hurt, the way they're sized... An arm jutting haphazardly from my shoulder, still changing, skeletal fingers lengthening slowly like some horrible monster from a schizophrenic's nightmare. Dark, course fur spreading like a disease over my horrid form, and what looks like a string of useless bones trailing across the floor from behind me, growing-over with muscle and flesh, becoming a tail. . . .
What have they done to me. . .?
I remember, what seems like eons ago. . . I was a human, wasn't I? Human. . . Now, what am I? Some hideous monstrosity. . . some horrific beast. . .
. . .Beast. . .
I feel some other conscious surface within me as they send in their team to test my reflexes. Some other hunger... Some other hatred...
"Finally! The subject has stabilized!"
"It's. . ."
"This is our best accomplishment yet! Such a success. . ."
"A hard-earned success, Frederic."
The voices echo hollow in my head, each from another person in white. White on white on white on white. . .
. . .And everything goes black.
. . .I'm sorry, Imouto-chan. . .
*
The End - * = 'Little Sister' in Japanese
AUTHOR: Zeda (the BLK Kitti)
SERIES: Original (partly inspired by Bloody Roar for Playstation)
RATING: R
GENRE: Dark, Gross (original)
PART: 1/1
WARNINGS: Some graphic violence, and overly descriptive summaries of the body being torn-apart. Parental discretion is advised
DISCLAIMER: Kyo is mine. Do not steal him or say he's yours or I shall kill you. ^_^" 'Kay?
Comments go to Zeda at BKoe101725@aol.com
MY SITE: http://www.geocities.com/zeda_chan
*
I'm sorry, Imouto-chan*.
I'm sorry I lied. . .
That's all that can go through my mind as they lead me down the immaculate white halls again, to the Room. They've taken me here, at least three times a week, every week of every month of every year. . . since I was eleven. Every day that they took me into the Room, I'd lose another little piece of myself.
But. . . I've long run out of pieces.
I do their bidding, no question asked. They lay me down on operating tables and examine me, try to figure out what makes me tick. They give me shot after shot after shot, IVs and spinal taps, take samples of every bit of me they can get.
At first I screamed and cried; had nightmares every night and even during the day, in waking moments. . . And then as time passed I felt less and less human. These people in their white coats. . . they've stolen my soul, slowly, chunk by bleeding chunk, as the years passed me by.
It doesn't feel like time passes. . . Everything here's so horribly, chillingly white. So empty. . . I watch the floor in front of me, my vision tunneling, watching the white fade into white and my pale shoeless feet as I pad down the hall. My skin seems dark compared to this snow-haze whiteness, but the guards paralleling me always wear black.
Thick clopping black boots that resonate thunder up and down the halls. This, in compare to my small, pale, quiet steps. Like a ghost, drifting between two armored sentinels. Dark and shining guns and straps of bullets make their clink-clink sound, and almost eclipsing the boots it echoes through my hollow eyes and the hollow halls.
A-64s. They're carrying them wrong.
They've taught me, from the first day, for every day that I wasn't brought to the Room, how to use guns. They've been drilled into me ceaselessly, and day by day as I kill live targets. . . I grow closer and closer to these weapons.
I'm so alone. . . I must be going insane, calling these tools of death my friends. . . They never question me when I sit quietly with my guns during breaks, the only things not using me, and coo to them softly. Do I dream that they'll respond? No... They'll still be cool grey metal things that can't offer me warmth or love, but they're all I have.
All I. . .
And I still, frozen stiff as we stop outside the door to the Room. Even now, after years of coming here, I fear it. . . this purest white of white Room. This huge, domed, auditorium-like room, with the bar of darkened windows and I can see them watching me. . .
The dreadful feeling of my chest dropping-out as the guards shove me into the Room is present now as I stumble forward, pitching to the white floor. I slowly push myself up, and lift my head. There, like a dark pool of blood framing the thankful off-white of cream, I see my reflection in the mirror. Dark red hair like blood drying on white floors, hollow eyes like gold starting to grow-over with moss in a darkened temple ruin. Always my own hair and eyes are the only color other than black and white. Even when I bleed I thank whatever blind deity should be listening that it's not white.
The popping sound as the speakers turn on gets my attention.
"Specimen A293K, please stand in the designated spot, facing the panel." The flavorless voice echoes calm in the huge circular Room, and silently I oblige, standing on the white-on-white spot I've always stood. So familiar this spot is, they don't need to mark it with the blue 'X' anymore.
I face the panel, perfectly stoic, but I know what's coming and it makes my heart pound at the cage of my ribs, trying to escape me. I hear the whirring, and I feel the presence drop down behind me. I bow my head slightly, exposing the back of my neck to it. I don't have to, and I don't want to turn around and face the huge, automated needle. I close my eyes and bite my lip, prepared for the pain that will always come.
The needle sinks into the base of my neck, searing a flaming dart of pain through the paper-thin flesh, into the crest of the bone that lies parallel to my collarbone. I bite into my lip deeply, to the point that it bleeds, determined not to cry-out as it sinks still deeper, then a tear rolls down my pale cheek as the plume of chemical is injected. It feels like acid, or fire, coursing out in pulsating streaks through my veins, burning in my blood and yet searing cold down through the core of my spine.
They give me this injection every time I enter the Room. Animal hormones they usually say, or 'GACs' or something else... I don't know what 'GACs' are, but I heard the guards saying once that it was short for 'Genetic Alteration Chemicals' or 'Genetic Addition Chemicals', or something like that. . .
In any case, it works fast. The needle is suddenly wrenched from my neck and retracts from me and I stand perfectly still, a dribble of blood running from my bleeding lip down to my chin and dripping glorious red onto the immaculate white floor. I shiver, vision swimming as I start to feel the rippling in my body. The bones starting to shift...
It happens very rapidly after the shot, and the pain comes and I can't hold back any more. I fall to my knees, wailing and clutching at myself.
My whole body's burning. . . !
My back rips open and muscles are ripped and destroyed, bones cracking and shifting. I see some bloody shards of my breaking bones fly past my face and skip across the white floors, streaking it red as if I've exploded, and I look up to the mirrors and see the hideous deformity I'm becoming. My legs rend and split, one veering off and becoming like the tail of a snake before cracking and reforming, splitting and rending again.
I cry out in agony, feeling my body ripped-up like a useless paper doll, feeling blood flush hot and liquid from my wounds and over metamorphosing flesh, and jolts of pain and chemical jabbing through me like thousands of icy, sharp needles directed at all my weaknesses.
My vision swims, completely overtaken by the agony, and my jaw clicks before being torn away, crushed and then replaced again. I form a muzzle, long and dog-like, my eyes bulge hideously before shifting. It seems to consider forming a beak for a moment, the bone jutting out of my face and forming the hook of some air raptor, and then decides on the muzzle, cracking and snapping. More bones fly, pinkish marrow quivering like opaque jelly on the hellish white floors, and I have a muzzle again.
Everything twists and snaps and my eyes drift skyward, tears rolling from them freely, never touching human flesh as they slide down my cheeks.
It hurts. . . so bad. . .
I'm unable to cope anymore, but this body seems incapable of the sobs that well in my chest. No escape, no salvation, no redemption. My gaze rolls, if reluctantly, to the mirrors. . . and it's hideous.
Such teeth... they hurt, the way they're sized... An arm jutting haphazardly from my shoulder, still changing, skeletal fingers lengthening slowly like some horrible monster from a schizophrenic's nightmare. Dark, course fur spreading like a disease over my horrid form, and what looks like a string of useless bones trailing across the floor from behind me, growing-over with muscle and flesh, becoming a tail. . . .
What have they done to me. . .?
I remember, what seems like eons ago. . . I was a human, wasn't I? Human. . . Now, what am I? Some hideous monstrosity. . . some horrific beast. . .
. . .Beast. . .
I feel some other conscious surface within me as they send in their team to test my reflexes. Some other hunger... Some other hatred...
"Finally! The subject has stabilized!"
"It's. . ."
"This is our best accomplishment yet! Such a success. . ."
"A hard-earned success, Frederic."
The voices echo hollow in my head, each from another person in white. White on white on white on white. . .
. . .And everything goes black.
. . .I'm sorry, Imouto-chan. . .
*
The End - * = 'Little Sister' in Japanese