Out of the Frying Pan, Out of the Fire, and Now Here
This is a sequel to "Better Off His Whore", a fic I had written well over two years ago. That particular piece was based loosely around events in my life, as is its sequel. Although details are far from the truth, the meaning behind each of these pieces once were and now are, respectively, key players in my life as it changes as I grow.
I have no claim over any Gundam Wing characters, themes, or items.
Dorothy gazed, empty eyed, at the clotted blood seeping into the toilet paper. Its first appearance had worried her, however, its own persistence, along with her burdensome relationship, had long worn away any worries. It was now replaced by an air of normalcy. Yet this blood seemed far from anything normal; brown, black, and only occasionally red, it seemed as if her body had already died and all that was left to come out of her was the already coagulated blood. And yet here she still was. Peering between her bare and still bruised legs into the toilet bowl, she seemed unfazed by the swirls of thick black liquid falling like atrophied faerie wings in the pool of water. As she pulled her aching body off the porcelain toilet, she caught a quick glimpse of herself in the dingy hotel bathroom mirror.
Her once long, beautiful hair was now cropped close to her skull, conveniently resembling the fashion of a certain colleague of Zechs's. She carefully lifted a lock off her forehead and let it fall, noting the remnants of sweat and grease left over from an excess of sex and a lack of bathing. Her skin, always pale, now seemed translucent. Asphyxiation blue veins nearly glowed through her arms, face, legs, chest, and neck. The body that she had worked so hard to tone, control, and make bow to her biding was now that of a malnourished prisoner of war. Cocking her head to one side, she half-heartedly reflected on how her appearance reflected her disposition.
Her seemingly nonchalant relationship with Zechs had taken a turn for the worse. When it had started, it had been a mutually beneficial agreement; sex for escape from the torment of what he thought he couldn't have, sex for the glimpse of what she thought she didn't have. Now that sex had now turned into violent fucking that, to an outside observer, would closely resemble rape. Yet Dorothy went as willingly as anyone with no will left could go. And as Zechs become more obsessed with turning Dorothy into Lucrezia, Dorothy in turn fell further into her own shell. As if he was somehow convinced that she really was his ex-lover, Zechs had also acquired a fervent possessive streak. She was now confined to the small suite they had shared for nearly 4 months, forced into boredom, isolation, depression, and, worst of all, reflection.
Still naked from this morning's 'session', Dorothy's eyes fell upon her chest, marked by bites, scratches, and a few bruises. Carefully, as if it might break, she lifted one breast in her palm, feeling its weight in her hand. She stared down at the white flesh, marked by teeth, nails, and pronounced veins. Still gentle, she raised it to where she thought it ought to be, in a ditch effort to retain at least a semblance of care in her appearance. Then she let it drop back into its natural, and more comfortable, position. She too knew that she would feel so much better in her natural, and more comfortable, position, but whether or not that was still with Quatre she didn't dare ask herself.
Body parts are such dumb objects; no matter what the mind says, no matter what the heart feels, and no matter how much the soul shatters, body parts still crave for the one that treated them best. Time after time, she would find herself drifting into a visual muscle memory, fantasizing that instead of Zechs biting her neck, it was Quatre caressing it. Her hands would constantly search Zechs's back for the scar she had left on Quatre with her own blade, that small hollow at his collarbone, and the slight arch of his shoulder blades. They were never there. When she felt Zechs's presence near her and knew that she was about to be touched, her skin always expected the cool feel of Quatre's long, pianist fingers; only to be shocked by the rough texture and use of Zechs's shorter, thicker digits.
She wasn't better off here. The blood seeping slowly from her body each day was only a physical metaphor for her body to tell her what her mind, heart, and soul refused to believe; she was dying without him.
Dizziness swept through her, clouding her vision. The bright fluorescent lights of the bathroom had hurt her head earlier but now felt like daggers burrowing into her cheekbones. Her hands reached for the doorframe but missed. Everything inside her screamed, burned, and cried. The tears that had refused to fall, that had built up inside her and pushed everything else out, now burned at the corner of her eyes. She wanted him here now, needed him here.
Her body, tired and worn, fell out from beneath her and she vaguely recalled her skin touching the cold linoleum and warmer carpet of the bedroom. Her eyes closed of their own accord and tears slowly seeped out and burned tracks down her cheeks and nose. Everything burning, burning, burning.
Gasp, I know. Horrible ending – c'mon, a fragment sentence to close? Really now.
I will be making a trilogy out of these pieces. And I hope there won't be a two year wait between this and the third. We'll see what I can do.
Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed enough to review.