"You didn't bring her back from the brink of insanity, Farfarello," Crawford sighed. It was difficult for him to discuss insanity with the madman--too difficult to get trapped in a technicality. But he was sure of one thing, the thing he said next. "She was well past the brink, farther than even you have gone, and you dragged her out."
"That makes the two of us even, then," quipped the Irishman as he sat on the counter pureeing tomatoes.
Crawford raised an eyebrow. "Have you forgiven God, then?"
Farfarello launched himself at Crawford and landed on his chest, knocking and pinning him to the floor. He had also helped himself to a kitchen knife during his flight, which he pressed against Crawford's throat. "Don't. Suggest. Such. Things," growled the madman. "Rebecca........" The words died on his tounge as he realized he didn't know what they were--he had no idea what Rebecca had done that had so completely changed him. He had no idea why Rebecca's presence was so comforting, what she had sparked that made pulling her back from madness seem like so little.
Schuldig helped Farfarello in his thinking by pulling up every time Rebecca had smiled at the Irishman within Farfarello's mind. It slowed down his calculations, his analysis of himself in full insane rage versus himself around Rebecca, until he could think of nothing but her smiling face, the way her eyes twinkled when she asked him about his scars, and the way she had clung to him and laughed at Crawdad Crawford jokes. But Schuldig had more important things to do than turn Farfarello into a lovesick puppy. He discreetly dug up a memory of Farfarello's--Rebecca hanging off of him with the demented grin of the insane as she told him about the blood dripping off of the walls. He twisted the memory of her laughing about the Wall Street Journal crossing its legs into the other, more disturbing memory.
Farfarello fell off of Crawford, cutting him in the process. He drew his arms around himself and shook himself to get rid of the image. But strong arms were around him, a woman's voice was shushing him. In the background, he vaguely heard Crawford yelling at Schuldig. He opened his eye and saw Rebecca holding him protectively.
"Shhh, Farfie. Shhhh, Farfie-kun. At least we stopped him in time," she whispered soothingly. "At least he didn't show you my vision."
"What did you see, Rebecca?"
"All of us. Dead. Covered in blood," Rebecca shuddered, recalling the vision. "Bradley, in his favourite chair, shot twelve times with darts, through his beloved newspaper--in the heart, stomach, head.....so much blood....it was dripping off the wall behind it. Nagi, strung up on wires, all bloody and dripping...and the basement walls were dripping....you and me...down there, cut apart..." Rebecca sobbed into Farfarello as she remembered the terrible premonition.
The Irishman was unsure of how to comfort her, but he tried to pull her into his lap. Instead, she fell to the floor as he was dragged to his feet. He felt himself fly into a wall, oblivious to the pain of his now broken shoulder. Crawford loomed over him and snarled, "How DARE you ask her to remember something like that! She went to comfort you and you ask her to tell you about that! You're more than insane! You're stupid! I will never let you near my sister again!"
Ok, folks. This is mostly a trial run. I'll start writing more as I get reviews. I'm not asking for anything insane, just six. One measely review and I'll write the next chapter. Six (five more) and I'll post it. Until then, try to figure out my penname. Get it, and I'll give you a cookie. Those of you who already know (you know who you are), don't spoil it for others. ZaiJian!
"That makes the two of us even, then," quipped the Irishman as he sat on the counter pureeing tomatoes.
Crawford raised an eyebrow. "Have you forgiven God, then?"
Farfarello launched himself at Crawford and landed on his chest, knocking and pinning him to the floor. He had also helped himself to a kitchen knife during his flight, which he pressed against Crawford's throat. "Don't. Suggest. Such. Things," growled the madman. "Rebecca........" The words died on his tounge as he realized he didn't know what they were--he had no idea what Rebecca had done that had so completely changed him. He had no idea why Rebecca's presence was so comforting, what she had sparked that made pulling her back from madness seem like so little.
Schuldig helped Farfarello in his thinking by pulling up every time Rebecca had smiled at the Irishman within Farfarello's mind. It slowed down his calculations, his analysis of himself in full insane rage versus himself around Rebecca, until he could think of nothing but her smiling face, the way her eyes twinkled when she asked him about his scars, and the way she had clung to him and laughed at Crawdad Crawford jokes. But Schuldig had more important things to do than turn Farfarello into a lovesick puppy. He discreetly dug up a memory of Farfarello's--Rebecca hanging off of him with the demented grin of the insane as she told him about the blood dripping off of the walls. He twisted the memory of her laughing about the Wall Street Journal crossing its legs into the other, more disturbing memory.
Farfarello fell off of Crawford, cutting him in the process. He drew his arms around himself and shook himself to get rid of the image. But strong arms were around him, a woman's voice was shushing him. In the background, he vaguely heard Crawford yelling at Schuldig. He opened his eye and saw Rebecca holding him protectively.
"Shhh, Farfie. Shhhh, Farfie-kun. At least we stopped him in time," she whispered soothingly. "At least he didn't show you my vision."
"What did you see, Rebecca?"
"All of us. Dead. Covered in blood," Rebecca shuddered, recalling the vision. "Bradley, in his favourite chair, shot twelve times with darts, through his beloved newspaper--in the heart, stomach, head.....so much blood....it was dripping off the wall behind it. Nagi, strung up on wires, all bloody and dripping...and the basement walls were dripping....you and me...down there, cut apart..." Rebecca sobbed into Farfarello as she remembered the terrible premonition.
The Irishman was unsure of how to comfort her, but he tried to pull her into his lap. Instead, she fell to the floor as he was dragged to his feet. He felt himself fly into a wall, oblivious to the pain of his now broken shoulder. Crawford loomed over him and snarled, "How DARE you ask her to remember something like that! She went to comfort you and you ask her to tell you about that! You're more than insane! You're stupid! I will never let you near my sister again!"
Ok, folks. This is mostly a trial run. I'll start writing more as I get reviews. I'm not asking for anything insane, just six. One measely review and I'll write the next chapter. Six (five more) and I'll post it. Until then, try to figure out my penname. Get it, and I'll give you a cookie. Those of you who already know (you know who you are), don't spoil it for others. ZaiJian!