Title: Don't Let Me Remember-*-Blue with an E~cE n'EsT pAs ImPoRtAnT
Author: Naisumi
Rating: R(/NC-17?)
Parts: 2/4
Disclaimer: You've _got_ to be kidding...^.~
Archive: If you want, but could you tell me at least?
Warnings: Angst, symbolism, darkness, yadda yadda yadda
Notes: Dahhhh!!! This one is REALLY dark...When I reread it, I was like, "Hoooly crap!!" >.< Anyways, you are now warned. If you are squicked by molestation, do not read.
Additional Notes: This is _not_ betad.
Enjoy, and please give me C&C!!! Comments and critics welcome, flames will be posted and laughed at and then used for the litter box.
"blah." People speak
-- uh...scene switch
--
The moon was dotted with craters, as if someone had taken the stars and thrown them viciously at it, watching the prismatic explosions with sadistic glee. It hung there, a maimed silvery gold pearl, suspended in the melted sapphire sky, a silent testimony to injustice, like a pained witness to all the crimes that occurred on earth. He watched it with wide glassy eyes. His arms ached.
It had been the same today, the same as every other Thursday--every other any-day. It hurt. After dropping him off at the public school, his foster mother had screeched away in her bright green Jetta. He thought if it her--her and her never-ending envy for everyone else's things. He hated her--her and her straw-like hair, bleached from the sun and too many color treatments. His 'mom' hadn't done anything last night, but it still hurt; he could still remember the night before. She made him call her by her maiden name, and refused to hear the word 'mother' out of his mouth.
He could remember the first time it had happened--it had been Tuesday, 12:58 AM; he had been staring at the clock. He had been 11. She came in and sat at the foot of his bed, looking ghostly in the silvery moonlight that flooded his navy blue coverlet. Smiling, she had asked with her honey sweet voice if he was having trouble sleeping. He had peered up at her, feeling strangely anxious, and had replied in the honest open way that children had, saying that he felt cold. Her smile widened and she had pulled the soft, cotton comforter around him snugly. Being tucked in had felt so nice, so loving, and he had almost begun to fall into a hazy slumber when he felt fingers slip under his shirt. The quiet, almost shallow breathing of the woman above him sped up, hissing past his ears as she bent over, both hands spanning his quivering torso, her thumbs hooking on the waistband of his underwear. A soft whimper escaped his throat before he was silenced by something wet running along his trembling lips, a warm tongue that slipped inside briefly before withdrawing. Peering into the night, he tried to discern the shadowy figure above him, and saw her astride him, her knees on either side of him, her naked chest heaving, her skirt hiked up.
A few moments more of senselessness and then she was off him, rebuttoning her blouse. He opened his mouth to question it all, confused and scared and crying, but she simply smiled and murmured, 'Shh...it's not important.'
It continued like that for weeks, his foster father never finding out. He didn't understand; didn't understand why she touched him like that, why she panted and gasped and moaned, why she put his hand to her breast. For a while, he thought it would only be her, but then his father went on a business trip.
That night, it had been 9:24, several minutes after his usual bedtime. It was Sunday and it was cold, rainy, thundering. He had been scared, being the child he was, and called for her; called for 'mom,' even after everything confusing and frightening. He heard laughter from the master bedroom and found her with another man. He didn't understand then, just like he didn't understand before--didn't understand when she hugged him and began caressing him, didn't understand when she held him down for her boyfriend, didn't understand the searing white-hot pain that surged through him. The same thing happened again and again, his father still oblivious.
Then, two months later, he found his father had known.
His father's caustic words chilled every crevice of his broken, fearful heart.
'You want another kid?! I already gave you this one--isn't he good enough?'
'Yeah, he's real tight, John...but I want--'
'What, a threesome? You're a sick woman, Barbara!'
'And you're just as sick! You're just as sick for giving me a kid to rape.'
Rape.
So now he had a world to call the terrible hurt and terrifying touches.
Three days later, the door to his bedroom creaked open, her softly calling his name and he stripping down obediently. Later, while she was dressing, he killed her with one of her antique silverware collection--a sterling knife. He turned on the stove, set the microwave to preheat, turned the oven to 360 degrees and stabbed his father, as well, when he came to the kitchen, enraged.
Then, he lit the house aflame, standing on the dew-bright lawn. And as the unholy structure, the gateway of Hell burned, Pietro whispered a quiet echo of previous words, "It's not important."