Disclaimer: Nope, uh-uh, not mine. sigh
AN: Sorry! I was in Minnesota in a cabin with no computer or anything of the sort. But I'm home now and here's more!
Walking The Dividing Line
Part 8
"I'm getting to you," he said, and I could just see his grin, that ghastly, hollow grin that would reach up to his equally hollow eyes. I didn't have the strength to look up at him any more. I hadn't for a while now.
I didn't know how long I'd been here. I didn't know when the last time I'd eaten or really slept was – I'd lost count of how many times I'd passed out long ago – and I didn't know how much more I could take. I didn't know how much more I *wanted* to take.
I wanted it to end. I didn't care how – I didn't care if he died or if I died, so long as there was an end. All I knew was that I didn't want to admit it to him; I didn't want to let him win. I couldn't do that. But I couldn't even lift my head to look him in the face any longer, and he knew that.
He also knew I couldn't keep this up much longer. I could tell that the time in between my blackouts was getting shorter and I could tell that the effects of not having eaten or slept were getting stronger. Every part of me ached and my head hadn't stopped pounding in so long that I could scarcely remember a time when it hadn't been doing so. I had lost more blood than I cared to think about; each time I regained consciousness he would slash at my cuts, re-opening them and it was more painful each time. My face and legs and arms were stained brown with blood and I couldn't remember when its iron-sharp taste hadn't filled my mouth. The floor – that was all I could really see anymore – was mottled silver and brown and red.
I didn't want to know what I looked like any more. Not that I cared – there was no one to impress. My face and arms and chest and legs were covered with not only cuts but bruises as well; my broken ribs ached ferociously and he'd made use of them more than once. My clothes – or what remained of them – had been cut and stained and torn so that I didn't even know if they really counted as "clothing" any longer.
I didn't know if anything mattered at all any longer. I knew I didn't matter – there was no one left to care if I lived or died, not even myself because I just wanted an end, and the only end I could think of was death. The only thing keeping me here was my refusal to let him win. I wouldn't give him – or her – the satisfaction. I couldn't do that – the hatred, the only thing left burning in me besides the pain, wouldn't let me give in. I wanted to stare at him through it all and make him see that he hadn't won.
But…
But I didn't know if I could do even that, any more.
"You know it, don't you," he said, breaking me from my half-conscious thoughts and bringing me back to the aching, throbbing, white-spotted world. I stared at my bloodstained sneakers and attempted to concentrate on his words, on his voice, because I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of passing out for as long as I could hold on. It was becoming a contest, the light versus the darkness, the pain versus the numbness, and the darkness tended to win.
My stomach was eating itself and the room was on spin cycle. His voice came from a million miles away.
"Do you know how much blood you've lost, little Ali-chan?" he asked, voice still that damned annoying singsong tone but I could tell…
He was getting bored.
Please let him be bored, anything, *anything* to make him stop –
Please let him kill me.
I didn't want to break. But I was going to if he didn't stop, and it was getting harder and harder to pretend I wasn't, and it was also getting harder to keep that fact from him as well. But there was no way I was going to let him know that – I couldn't let him know that –
He lifted my right wrist, long fingers cradling my pale skin delicately, as if he cared about me at all. I saw his face, eyes focused on the white scar on my wrist – the scar that Heero had given me.
"Oh, look," he said calmly, glancing up at my face before lifting the knife, "I missed one."
He dropped my hand, now dripping with blood, as my fingers went an odd sort of prickly numb…
"Do you know," he said, stooping below me and blocking the view of my sneakers so I caught a glimpse of chestnut bangs framing blue eyes and a flash of silver –
He'd only just re-opened the cuts on my face and arms, but within seconds a fresh wave of pain – and a fresh rain of blood on my sneakers – told me he'd done it again.
"Do you know," he repeated, this time continuing, "how much blood you're losing?" He sounded smug and self-satisfied and I wanted to kill him –
*Slash*
Another cut on my leg re-opened.
*Swish*
And one on my stomach.
*Scrape*
A new one down my thigh – was there really skin he hadn't cut?
*Crash*
A new sound – the hand holding the blade stopped, inches from my nose, as a faraway clatter reached my ringing ears. Then –
"Duo!"
A voice – a voice I recognized. A voice I thought I'd never hear again. It was frantic and joyful and horrified all at the same time.
It was Quatre's voice.
I didn't even have the strength to look up; but I saw Duo's body disappear from my field of view with a swish of his hair and a movement of his arm; I saw his hand fly by, a gun gripped in his long fingers and I wondered where he'd gotten it from and why the hell he hadn't just shot me and gotten this overwith. He'd had a gun this whole time; I suddenly wondered how he could have been so damn rude as to not just end this for me –
"Duo?!" Quatre's voice called out again, this time questioning and worried and I heard shots ring out, far away, and silently wished one would reach my head. It was okay now – I didn't have to outlast Duo. I didn't have to stare him down, day after day, I didn't have to hurt anymore. I could die now. I could die now I could die now I could –
More shots, and I heard someone fall, a dull thud resounding through the room. Lots of shouting –
"Wufei! You didn't have to –"
"Shut up, Winner. He was obviously not going to come willingly."
"But you didn't have to…"
Quatre trailed off and I heard shuffling; I managed to summon the strength to lift my head the merest fraction of an inch. I saw the slender blond kneeling over Duo's body, lying facedown on the floor. There was a small puddle of red slowly spreading from his right arm, beneath the blanket of hair, and it looked like he'd been shot. The drawn gun Wufei held only confirmed my suspicions.
Please, my mind whispered. Please, shoot me next.
"It's not serious. He'll be fine," Wufei sighed.
My vision was getting hazy just from holding my head up an inch above my chest; I couldn't even feel my hands anymore and suddenly I knew…
It *was* over. Duo had been right. I had lost too much blood. I couldn't feel my arms or legs now, and I was so cold and my head hurt so much… It was over. It was over –
Quatre had managed to sling Duo's unconscious body over his shoulder; he looked up and caught my gaze – and his eyes widened in shock and I saw his mouth open to speak.
At the same time Wufei looked up and suddenly I was staring down the muzzle of his gun from across the room.
Thank God.
"Wufei - *stop*!" Quatre cried frantically, and in that second any strength I had gave out and I dimly felt my chin hit my chest, felt the blood dripping down my cheek run onto my shirt, soaking it yet again…
I waited for the shot to come, for the cold lead to free me from the hell that Duo had put me through, had enjoyed creating for me every day, but it never came.
There was only static in my ears, and then voices above my head.
"She's a *traitor*! I will *not* –"
"Wufei, stop it! She needs medical –"
"What the hell are you *on*, Winner – she doesn't deserve to live. Obviously even Maxwell knew that."
"There's something wrong with Duo," Quatre said, voice frantic and pleading and I wondered why I was still hearing these things, why the world hadn't left me yet, because I could feel it bleeding away just like the fluid dripping down my body and pooling on the floor…
"I will not allow you to – "
"You will *not* leave her." Quatre's voice had suddenly changed – no longer frantic or pleading, it was firm and left no room for argument.
There was a brief moment of silence, and I could feel my reality slipping even further away, welcoming the darkness it brought with it because I wanted so badly for it to carry me out of this hell –
"Wufei," Quatre said, voice still commanding and resolute, "You will *not* leave her. If you leave her that makes *you* no better than a traitor." He paused. "And I don't remember there being any honor in that."
Silence.
Then the gunshot came –
And I fell to the floor as my shackles disappeared, pain stabbing every part of my body and despite my belief that I had nothing left, I heard a cry escape my lips. I felt my head crack on the floor and I felt the cold metal and the cool wetness of my newly-fallen blood soaking into my skin and hair and clothes –
And I felt arms around me, slipping beneath my shoulders and legs and I felt a soft shirt covering a firm chest and I heard a heartbeat beside my ear, cutting through the static in my head, and I felt someone carrying me.
I somehow found the energy to crack open my eyes, and I saw that the shirt covering the chest was blue; and that the arms belonged to Wufei –
The arms belonged to Wufei as he carried me out of hell.
I became aware that I had a handful of his shirt in my hand, clutching the blue fabric as if it were a lifeline. I briefly wondered where I'd found the strength to do that.
I let go.
And I plunged into the darkness.
