Memento
by
Kel
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership to Dark Angel, or to the song of my inspiration.
Note: If you must find something to blame for this fic, blame Drag You Down by Finger Eleven. It made me want to explore the animal side of an '09 escapee, so I did.
He has to remind himself that he doesn't like the taste of blood. That it turns his stomach in violent knots.
He has to remember how, in the middle of training for the three days following their little hunt, he had suddenly wanted to run and brush his teeth. How desperate the need had been, to rid himself of the taste. How, given the opportunity, he'd brush his entire mouth raw, to the brink of drawing more blood.
He has to remind himself, because if he doesn't, he'll snap.
It is only this reminder that matters enough to make any difference. He doesn't care that to lunge, to attack, to sink one's teeth into a pitifully inadequate opponent, isn't accepted out here. He doesn't care that she'll scream – she'll start screaming, and she won't stop until her voice no longer works, and his ears throb with the pulse of blood and adrenaline through his overheated body.
He doesn't care that this is what he has been trying to escape half of his life. He only cares that he can't stand the taste of blood.
So he watches. He stands in the shadows as she dances with a stranger; kisses him in the middle of the bar.
He watches her, thinking that she is his. His. The urge rises within him to tear the stranger to pieces, to ravage and tear and hear the man's screams. Because he is a sinner. He is an animal. He is possessive, and he is revolted by it – but not enough to supress the desire.
He doesn't care that his actions often make him just as much a thief as the man to which his mate clings. He only wants to relive the carnage that was his all but forgotten childhood. He wants to relish in it.
But the taste would be unbearable, and this is the only thing that makes him turn away.
He returns to his apartment and packs. He doesn't bother to turn on a light, just gathers all the belongings he doesn't care about – because these are the only things he has – and shoves them blindly into a worn-out suitcase.
He thinks he might be angry, but he isn't sure. He might have loved her, but he doesn't know if he is capable of it. He doesn't think he is, isn't sure he ever has been. If he feels at all, he feels dirty. Cheated, so to speak. She was his, and she didn't realize it – simply tossed him away just as he tosses the snowglobe she gave him for Christmas. Almost casual, at first.
He throws every glass, mug, plate, appliance he can get his hands on, shattering them all off of the walls and furniture. Eventually, his non-emotions build to towering heights within him. He punches the walls, he screams until his throat is raw.
Not because she broke his heart.
Because he is an animal. Because it's in his nature.
Because he wants to savour the taste of blood, but is afraid to.
When he stops, he notices that some of his fingers are broken, that his skin is battered and disfigured and shredded. That his hands are dripping with blood, leaving random trails and spatters about the destroyed apartment. He lifts them; studies them. Watches the way the darkness turns the rich liquid black.
He brings a hand to his mouth. He licks a droplet from one twisted finger.
Why? He's forgotten why. He's forgotten why not. But the ghost of a voice inside him, childlike and afraid, insists it's bad. Very, very bad. He thinks he might have known that voice once, long ago. He might have known it well, he might have cherished it.
Trying to yield to past customs he might have held, he listens with half-interest. But eventually the voice fades, snuffed out of existence by red blackness. He hears it die.
And he doesn't care.
End.