A/N: This is a sequel to my one-shot story 'When Angels Fall.' I came up with this a little while ago, but didn't think to post it because I'm not that pleased with it. However, I've figured out an actual good one-shot sequel to WAF, and so this is like a little interlude between the two - Fleur's further decrease of trust and control over her own life.
Crimson and WhiteWhat the- what are you doing? Rouge screams at her. Stop it! Stop it right now you idiot! You're going to-
But she can't stop. Not now. Not when the blissful agony consumes her as the lines appear, vivid, angry red marks, and the blood drips and she can't help but wince at the sweet, sweet pain, wanting it to stop even as she keeps going. Its no matter of right and wrong, success or failure – there is only the crime, the punishment, and the penance.
She stops, gasping, drops the needle on the cabinet shelf, and looks down at her thigh. A furious map of scars and fresh lacerations, still bleeding, mars the white skin.
Red on white.
Blood drops have scattered on the white linoleum floor, a twisted polka-dot pattern.
Red on white.
She grabs desperately for tissues – quickly, just wipe it away, put down your skirt, and keep going. Nothing happened. Its just another memory, another scar – to blot away at the marks of her shame. Quickly the thin paper is stained, soaked through by blood.
Red on white.
The blood won't stop. She begins to panic. Even as the shallow cuts dry, the deeper ones continue to flow. Rouge is screaming furiously that she disobeyed, swearing a blue streak in French. She winces and puts her stained hands to her temples, clutching her hair and shaking her beautiful head as she sinks to her knees.
"Please, stop… please, I'm sorry, just stop…" Stop the bleeding. Stop the screaming. Make it all go away.
"Please just be a dream." Just let me wake up.
No dream, sweetheart, Rouge sneers at her angrily. You got yourself into this mess. I told you he was trouble. I told you he would go too far.
"But he seemed so nice…"
Mon dieu, you're so naive! They all do, before they stick their hands up your shirt – or in your case, up the damn skirt. Englishmen. They're all bastards. Now look what you've done!
Curled up in a ball, she does look. The cuts still bleed. There's so many of them – before, she had control. Before she could stop at five. No more. But now the lines swim before her eyes, a red haze covering her vision, and she can't begin to count them. There are so many…
She realizes then just how far she's fallen, and a tear slips down her perfect porcelain face to the white tiles, mixing with the blood.
Her world is made of crimson and white.