I've put too many words in italics there, I realized it while formatting. Welp.
/TW: mentions of child abuse, panic attack, mentions of murder and injuries (again), vague self-harm, vague suicidal ideations\ - basically, uh, an attempt at writing what's going on with Melon's mental state, so this gets pretty dark. Be warned.
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He wakes up to a… white ceiling? This is not his room. He furrows his brow, tries to sit up- only to gasp when his body protests harshly against this course of action. He lays very still, waiting for the pain to settle, then tries to look around, but one of his eyes doesn't open completely and his peripheral is engulfed in shadows. It clears a bit with each of his inhales as he slowly comes back to his senses – at the same time, each breath seems to stoke a burning fire deep within his chest. It hurts. Everywhere.
And sure, he likes pain, even actively searches for it at times… but not like this, not when he doesn't know where he is, where to find the exits and how to avoid dead-ends corridors – not when the pain is so severe he can't move, can barely breathe, can't even think straight.
Wait.
What even happened?
He remembers alcohol and Agata's face, the warm buzzing inside that turned more dizzying than expected – is he such a lightweight now that one drink is enough for him to not walk straight anymore? –, and after that… his mind hits a wall.
And some part of him is terrified to even scratch at it.
He does raise a hand, though, nails barely brushing against the wall, and in a flash, there are more hands, too many hands, and they are not his, and they are touching him and it's wrong he wants to scream, he can feel claws scratching at his arms his throat his sides his thighs his- can feel claws scratching at his insides, twisting around drawing blood in his guts in between his organs up to his ribcage tearing it open he can't breathe – it burns it hurts it must stop but it doesn't stop no no NO-
-and the gazelle part of his brain is screaming at him, frantic, panicked, urging him to flee, to run, to run until his lungs burn and he is coughing up blood, run until his legs break or carnivore maws clamp around his nape, claws digging through his flesh, blood gushing out and- End of the line.
When he thinks carnivores, he thinks her. Her above all – but she's not alone, of course not, that would be too easy, he could kill her, he has once – bashed her skull in until only her wretched smile remained. He feels his hands curl into fists, half-formed claws digging into his palms, hard enough to leave marks – he feels the iron handle inside, how it's still slightly warm from her touch – the vibrations as he hit her, again and again and again, and blood splatters across his hands his face his eyes, blinding him, the heat from the iron steam, scalding against his skin, the echoing fire deep inside him that burns so hot he fears it's going to consume him entirely. (It has, in a way.) He sees red and he keeps on hitting her until white peeks out amongst the crimson and his arm hurts, iron slipping out of his weakening grip, and the only thing left within is a black hole.
He closes his eyes, hard, until all he can see over the darkness is white and red, flashes of light and splashes of blood against this feeble barrier between him and the world – but he can't escape the ghosts, they are trapped inside his skull, dragging him back to the darkness.
There is something so terribly wrong in killing your own mother – but also, so were her touches, her tone, the look in her eyes when she opened them fully and embraced her own madness – and so were the bugs, so fucking wrong even as a child it was clear as day, it made his skin crawl, feel like their little legs were skittering along his very nerves- He can still feel them now, when the fear takes over the anger, when he spirals down and his lungs scream for air and he's reduced to nothing more than a scarred victim – a scared little child backed up against a wall that never really escaped – a prey.
Anger and fear – carnivore and herbivore – the two faces of him, the two pillars of his life; the one he tries so hard to hide and repress, even if it means strangling everything else inside him, and the one he rejoices in, the one he bathes in like a pig in the mire.
The one side he wants gone even if it means disappearing with it-
-and the other side he's willing to show to the world – gun drawn and fangs bared, forcing them to gaze at his chimera face as they take their last breath. He wants them to hurt, he wants them to know, he wants to tear at this world that has no place for him, forcefully carves one amongst the corpses so he can watch it all burn.
Burn, yes, until the fire catches up to him and he would welcome it if only it could smother in its blazing arms the cold embrace of fear. He would gladly light everything and himself on fire if it meant feeling warm, even for one day.
He is suddenly acutely aware that he's not alone in the room, and his instincts kick into overdrive. He opens his eyes again but everything is blurry, swirling in darkness and red, red-red-red, beating to the erratic rhythm of his heart. All he can hear is the rushing of his blood in his ears and- Is he wheezing? He feels dizzy for the lack of air, his lungs hurt, everything hurts and he can't see and he's pretty sure he's going to throw up. What's that beeping? He tries to focus on the sound, it seems mechanical, it can't come from his own body, it has to be outside, if only he could focus on it, follow it like a lifeline, he could come back, but the next second it's gone, he's trapped again with his heartbeats and the madness within.
Run.
What? He can't run, he can't even move, his limbs won't answer. Is he dead? Is that how death feels like? If so, he has ended up in Hell.
Run! You're in danger!
There is a pressure deep inside, something he has to react to, but red hasn't left yet, and her – them neither, so he can't do anything. Adrenaline is coursing through his veins, burning like lava, making him want to tear through his own flesh, his heart might as well break his ribs for how harshly he's beating against them. Not dead, he rules out. Only life hurts that way. He doesn't want to, doesn't-
Not in your brain.
The pressure is real, real and outside. Something – someone – something is gripping his arm. The realization hits him like a shock, slashes through the shadows.
"Don't fucking touch me!"
The shout rasps up his dry throat, echoes in the stark silence, dissolves in the whiteness of the walls and the acrid smell of antiseptic. What…? Eyes wide, heart lodged in his throat, he tries to breathe, to assess the situation. He feels like he's going to pass out. But eventually, his airway opens up again, the ringing in his ears stops. The very real touch seems to have scared away the ghosts.
He's exhausted, the pain hasn't eased up, and he's staring right into the bewildered eyes of fucking Agata. He groans. This day can go fuck itself already, he's done with it.
"What-" The young lion starts, then stops. Melon glares at him, trying to convey that if he dares mention what just happened – what he saw of it, at least – he's going to find a way to slit his throat, injuries or not. Thankfully, Agata seems to get the message just fine.
The silence stretches awkwardly.
"You can kill me now if you want."
It hurts to talk, but by now he has regained enough of his bearings to withstand it.
"Come on, this is the perfect time. I can't fight back. A bullet to the head, maybe even the old pillow trick, hum? What would you opt for? Or you could even make it pass as an accident…" His eye catches the IV line attached to his arm and he starts playing with it. Absent-mindedly checking for a bubble, unsure if he's looking for its presence or its absence. "If you're clever enough, that's it," he adds with a smirk.
It sounds suspiciously like a challenge, even to his own ears. Agata rolls his eyes.
"I'm not going to kill you, Melon. Also… I'm the one who brought you here…"
"Oh." His hand falls back on the sheets and his eyes wander to the rest of the room. "By the way… Where is 'here', exactly?"
"Gouhin-san's clinic."
"Who- oh, Panda?"
Agata nods.
"Damn." He pauses, struggles to put his thoughts in order. "I do not understand that guy at all."
"Uh? Why?"
He vaguely waves his arm in the air. He can ignore pretty well his clearly damaged ribs, sure, but that doesn't mean he's going to launch into a diatribe if he doesn't strictly have to. Or want to. It would only be worse the effort if he gets to see Agata's face morphs into a different emotion than the one he's sporting right now – a weird sort of… compassion, maybe? Bleh.
"He's… nice," Melon finally utters with an exaggerated sneer, tongue sticking out as if he had tasted something bitter. (As if he knew what that was.)
"… Of course."
The hybrid grins again and the stretch re-opens a cut on his lips. He licks it without thinking, groans internally when a taste of cinder fills his mouth. He has never tasted blood, obviously, but he knows very well how it feels – warm, vibrant red, sticky when fresh. He has rarely stayed around his victims long enough for it to cool out, to dry, to turn an ugly maroon that doesn't interest him anymore. He does wish he could know if the taste matches the feelings it elicits in him.
"Anyway…"
He goes to pull up the blanket to check the state of his chest and, doing so, realizes his right forearm is engulfed in a very white cast. Why is everything white around there? It sucks. He frowns, still looking at the offending limb, then glances towards Agata.
"Broken," the lion nods. "As a couple of your ribs. And your left leg has… uh… I don't remember how Gouhin-san calls it, but kind of a small crack?"
Melon's frown deepens. Hairline fracture...? Again? Damn gazelle legs.
It's been a while since he has last properly broken a bone though. He remembers it took a long time to heal, the previous times. And that the pain lingered for just as long. He moves his fingers on his injured side, experimentally, and a small thing sparkles inside his chest when his nerves light up in response. Nice.
"Oh, and, uh… your horn…"
What's up with it? On impulse, he reaches up with his valid arm, ignoring how the motion tugs at his ribs, and- his fingers only meet air when he's pretty damn sure there should be something.
He quickly discovers his left horn has been broken in half.
His arm falls back to his sides and he can only stare at the blank wall ahead, trying to come to terms with this news. He never really liked his gazelle horns, except for the part where they helped him hide amongst the harmless – a wolf in sheep clothing, ah… – but anyway, they were very much a part of him. And- for the first time, the scars he received would be visible to anybody. That may be what bothers him the most about this.
Agata's voice jolts him out of his stupor:
"Gouhin-san said you should be dead, what with the shock and blood loss."
Melon hums, still staring at the spotless white wall. His traitorous mind paints on it the image of bloodied claws and he feels the marks they left on his body lightning up in echo. His valid hand clutches the sheet tighter.
There are a few posters on his right, he tries to focus on that instead. One regarding an abortion center, one warning against STDs – he feels nausea creeps up again, why does it all have to be about touch and lust? –, another against alcohol abuse. The last one has mainly just a phone number and someone's picture, some kind of big female dog with droopy ears and perfect white fur. She has a strict navy suit, the collar perfectly folded, and sunglasses over their eyes, and Melon guesses the smile on her face is supposed to be reassuring, given it's a poster for a child abuse helpline. She's probably a social worker – even though, something about her makes him slightly uneasy. He tries to remember if he has seen this picture before, mayb-
"Do you… uh…"
He tenses up as Agata's words interrupt his train of thoughts, bringing him back to the here and then. Don't finish that sentence. This time, though, his plea goes unanswered:
"Do you remember what happened?"
"No."
He has spat the word as coldly as he could, trying to open a bit more his swollen eye so he can suitably glare the young lion down. Hoping it would be enough to deter him from the matter.
"Okay…" Yes, stop there, perfect. "I'm not sure either; I had the time to go back to the mansion before I had the feeling something was wrong, and…" Okay, great, you can still stop here, fine. "But I recalled that, back at the bar, I noticed-"
"That girl," Melon interrupts. "Yeah, I saw her too."
"And in the alley where I found you…" No. No, stop. "There was that overwhelming smell of-" Shut up. "-leopards. And, er… Gouhin-san-"
"Shut up!" he snaps out loud.
Thankfully, the lion obeys, and Melon can focus on breathing. No more hyperventilating, thank you very much, it's damn degrading, and also really doesn't mix well with a damaged ribcage. He flexes his fingers on his injured side, then, because it's not enough, tries to flick his wrist inside the cast. A delicious surge of pain shoots up his entire arm, clearing his thoughts. He sighs.
"I don't give a shit about what happened," he adds.
Is it a hint of shakiness in his voice? He hopes the fuck not. Agata shifts awkwardly in his seat – wait, how long has he been in this room, waiting for him to wake up? The thought makes him uncomfortable.
"I heard it's not good to have repressed memories…" the young lion tries, looking himself very unsure on just why he is saying this out loud.
Melon bites back a laugh. Hey, kitty,I'mthe fake therapist there…
"I'm just going to recover," he says instead, pleased to find his voice assured this time. "Then, I'll find the culprit, and make well damn sure that no one remembers this night after that."
From the corner of his eye, he doesn't miss the slight shiver that runs through Agata. What, you're worried I'm talking about you too, kitty? That I would think that even witnesses have to go? Welp, that's not out of the range of possible, you'd be right. I've done it before. He licks his lips. How would the lion react if he said that out loud? Would he change his mind and attempt to kill him again? Melon thinks he should try. He would like to see his eyes dart away, his mouth opening up as if he couldn't breathe enough air through his nose anymore, his clawed fingers slightly outstretched in front of him as a paltry barrier – yes, the hybrid has picked up all these signs, and some more, rejoices in spotting them every time he enters the room, opens his mouth, do anything, really.
Fear is better than disgust or pity. And safer.
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Oh, also, I elected to read the canon as "Melon can feel pain, he just usually takes it either as masochistic pleasure or as the ''relief'' of self-harm". I've seen both going around in fics, so...
