By. Bento Box
09/22/01
---
*CRASH*
The antique China vase toppled over from the equally ornate desk. Slender fingers drummed distractedly on a glazed coffee table.
*BOOM*
The wide screen television was no more. The drumming fingers halted to reach up and push back the irritating strands of chocolate colored hair, and the sizzling circuits hissing from the blown screen didn't seem to bother the young boy.
*CRACK*
An oak chair imported from France suddenly collapsed underneath into itself as the legs gave way, and the splinters scattered all around the floor. Dark blue eyes glinted in the dim lighting.
*BANG*
Another vase, this time an actual original Tiffany, slammed into a nearby wall. Pristine white flakes fluttered downwards to join the shards. A rather large web of cracked paint was plain evidence of where the vase had struck.
The delicate webbing of the cracked wall suddenly brought an onslought of images that were not fully welcome.
---
"Look in the mirror boy," the hissing voice was low in tone, but it screamed in the small boy's ear like an incoming train. "Such a pretty, pretty boy." The tip of a long pink tongue flickered out and carressed the delicate curve of the ear. The boy whimpered softly, the too large eyes beginning to border on an uncontrollable fear.
"So sweet, and pretty aren't you?" The hiss turned into a purr and without warning, teeth clamped onto the ear, drawing blood.
The boy would have cried out if a fist hadn't suddenly blocked the cry.
"Tsk, tsk, no crying yet," it crooned. "We haven't even begun to have fun, ne?" A low chuckle followed, and a hand trailed down past the fragile shoulder and around the wrist. The boy could feel his arm going numb.
Another sharp movement, and the mirror was shattered. This time, the boy was allowed to cry out, and his voice was hoarse and his tears burning as the blood dripped down from his hand.
"Awww, poor, poor darling. Are you in pain now? Don't worry, by the time I'm done with you, you won't feel pain." A crushing kiss was initialized, and the boy struggled feebly, the pieces of his soul already beginning to break into shards.
---
A sharp pang of pain brought him out of his memory, and he realized he had been biting down on his lower lip. Blood now dripped from his lips, and he idly ran his tongue over the dark liquid, the bitter copper tasted filling his mouth.
He suddenly spasmed, and a violent lurch of his stomach had him staggering to the bathroom. The vile taste left in his mouth afterwards was a mixture of stomach acid and the bitter blood. He leaned against the bathroom wall, the coldness seeping through his thin shirt and into his flesh. He began to tremble convulsively.
Their last assignment had begun to tear at him slowly. That had been exactly five months and eight days ago.
He didn't know why he'd been able to last that long before the fine tendrils of his control bega to unravel. His teammates hadn't noticed anything, except maybe for his almost complete silence. Crawford hadn't even approached him, leaving him to assume that he had had no visions of his deterioration.
Today though, they would all know something was off. The broken shards of glass and wood would definitely be a loud, screaming clue.
He was lucky though. Only Schuldich and Farfarello would be his concerns for the present time being. Crawford had gone off on a business trip, and wouldn't be back until next Thursday. He wouldn't have to explain to his leader why he was slowly crumbling away. Yet.
Schuldich wouldn't be back until later on in the evening. He might have enough time to get rid of the mess, but not the cracks in the wall. Maybe a picture could be hung there?
That left only one member who he had to worry about, but at the same time, didn't truly need to.
Farfarello.
Farfarello had probably gone off somewhere to terrorize people. It was unpredictable when it came to when he'd be back, but he was the least of Nagi's worries. Farfarello never really asked questions.
Besides, he'd probably pass it off as a tantrum; tantrums hurt God.
A painfully ragged giggle burst past his dry lips. Was he spending too much time contemplating his members' personalities? Or rather, personality disorders? These past few days had been full of thinking, of thoughts, of never-ending scenes and memories.
If Nagi didn't know any better, he'd say he was going insane. Then again, he didn't know any better, so who was to say if he was truly going insane or not?
He closed his eyes against the erratic train of thoughts. Nothing made sense now. His orderly world, which had been so much like his beloved computer, was scrambled. A virus had somehow sneaked its way in, and was now slowly infecting every part of him. So painfully slow.
It all began with that damn assignment, the assignment where their client had an underground child prostitution.
So close to home.
He grit his teeth against that thought, viciiously lashing mentally at it. Damn these thoughts! He couldn't control himself anymore. He was falling apart, piece by piece.
Nagi's eyes snapped wide open, and the harsh light raked over his eyes, stinging them. He had to get out of here, had to go away. Had to, had to, had to.
Unsteadily, he rose to his feet, and stumbled out of the bathroom. He practically ran for the door, the fear and desperation inside of him choking his breath so that he longed for, craved for, thirsted for the cold air that awaited him outside the apartment.
He had to get away.
---
Author's Notes: Sorry if the introduction is somewhat decieving. As you can see (by the end of the intro) this fic isn't meant to be even remotely light-hearted or humurous. Long live angst. ;^^
Disclaimer for Torn Apart: I do not own Nagi, Farfie, Schu, Crawford, and etc. They belong to their respectful owner(s) and creator(s). Please do not sue me. I don't want to have to sell my soul to pay you. ;_;
Italics indicates flashbacks or bizarre mental voices; normal text indicates present tense or memories.
