Me again! Need to study for midterms/exams this week, so this might be the only chapter for a week or two.
A "sneak peek" for every person who can guess the guy in this chapter. I have a feeling I'll know my comic book readers from the movie watchers after this...
Chapter Eighteen: Perfect
Anya
I wake up to the first snow of the year.
It's not a pleasant feeling. The little ice crystals land on my face, on my exposed skin, on my eyelashes and cling with a burning touch. I blink and swipe at my face. Something crackles over the skin, and I wince, hissing in a breath through my teeth. I pull my hand away, flexing my fingers. My flesh is stained with dark red rivulets, chipping off in a pattern with my movements. I frown at the streams of chipping scarlet. I raise my other hand, holding them in front of my face, and stare. It's on both arms and hands.
Slowly I sit up. My jeans are torn, one leg gone below my right knee. My shoes are ruined - the soles dangle off the bottoms uselessly. Not much is left of my shirt but cracker-stiff rags; they stick to my skin and point into the layers of my body with starchy corners. I raise my hands tentatively to my hair and feels matts of knots and something squishy clinging to the strands. I cringe and drop my hands. I rather not know what that is.
I try to stand but the destroyed converse pull at the roots and stones on the ground. I hesitate before pulling them off. Not like they'd be much use anyway. With shaking fingers I tie the stiff laces together and sling the shoes over my shoulder.
Then I walk.
It's not like I don't remember. I do. I'm just… I don't know if I'm remembering everything.
I remember the house. Remember Elliot getting very strange in the car. Remember seeing his eyes, completely black like my parents' killers' had been. Remember hiding Annie. Remember desperately fighting Elliot. Remember a whole new level of fighting. Remember his hands around my throat.
Remember pain, sharp and quick.
Then things get fuzzy.
I know I woke up in the house. I know that because I saw Elliot see my eyes open. His expression... I know there was a lot of screaming - was my family there? I think so. Probably. I did tell Annie to call for my dad. I remember telling her that while I shut off my own mind as much as possible to stay focused on what I needed to do to keep her safe. I know I ended up in the woods.
I know I killed Elliot. I don't remember so well, but I know I did.
I know if I walk three paces to the left from a big oak tree, near a half-hidden bridge where I like to go and think, there will be upended dirt with a corpse twenty fucking feet into the frozen ground.
I know he won't be recognized even if he is dug up. I know he doesn't have any teeth in his skull. I know they're at the bottom of a river two miles from his corpse. I know his hands are a mile between each of those points, pinned beneath a boulder that even Hank can't pick up with his animal strength.
Problem is I don't remember any of this. I just know it.
I shudder and wrap my arms around my torso, chafing at my frozen arms. I have to find my way home before hypothermia sets in. I don't think I had a jacket, and if I did, it was in the back of Annie's car. Stilting over roots and rocks and trees I make my way through the woods. Dad's gonna kill me. Not about the I-just-murdered-a-boy-trying-to-kill-me-and-rape-my-best-friend thing, but the why-the-fuck-am-I-out-here thing. A high pitched giggle bursts out of my throat. Not that, you know, he's gonna be okay with a dead body in the woods. Honestly though I'm a genius. I managed to hide all the evidence, minus my bloody clothes, and I can always burn those. Erik would be proud; I doubt he could do much better. Well, maybe, seeing as I get my homicidal tendencies from him he could; maybe he set the haunted house on fire. Another laugh, even higher than the first one. Wouldn't that be great? If he hadn't done it yet, maybe I should suggest it. Or better yet, get a can of gasoline and do it myself. Wouldn't that be awesome? Not like Annie and Elliot and I were ever gonna go there ever again, since she's probably got PTSD up the wazoo and Elliot's in pieces and I don't wanna go by myself. I could start a big fucking bonfire in that place and watch it burn to the goddamn ground like the nightmare it is. We could toast marshmallows on the flames and sing cumbia. Hell, since I'm so good at being a fucking psychotic murderer who killed her fucked-up friend I can go get Elliot and toss him on the fire too! Wouldn't that be swell? Just a big fucking family picnic. Annie would love that, bet she really wants to be around me once I mention that I killed her friend from back before I even lived here and she'd be all merry and ecstatic and willing to help stoke the flames… And my family too, they're going to be so proud of me for what I just did -
Oh God what have I done?
I feel the tar under my feet and blink in confusion. I was so lost in my own head that I didn't notice I was on the road. The highway. Not far from New York City; I can see the outskirts.
I can also finally see the great big truck coming my way.
The driver sees me at the same time I scream and throw my hands out. They slam on the brakes so hard the tires squeal and I dive off the road in desperation. "WHAT THE HELL LADY?!" a man bellows. I whimper at the sound, struggling to get back to my feet. A door slams and I cringe, pressing my hands against my skull to drown out the noise, head ducking down to my chest. My heart bangs against my ribs so hard the bones feel brittle as glass. "What the fuck are you doing in the road?! I could have fucking killed…" The voice dies away, becoming a wheeze at the end, a half-stopped gasp. I bite on my lip until a metallic taste floods my mouth before raising my head.
He's a big guy. Over six foot and all muscle, something I can see through the thin material of his flannel shirt. He's got enough hair to rival Hank when my brother is an animal; most of it is on his head, pointing straight up on either side so it looks like he has horns, before extending down the sides of his face in enormous sideburns. His lips are a thin slash across a hard face and his eyes are dark as pitch. Big hands, hands that could probably extend across my entire waist and snap me in two, are exposed to the cold air.
He raises a hand and without thinking I skitter back, breath sawing through my throat and lungs. His eyes flicker from my face to my clothes to my bare feet. He opens his mouth. I squeeze my eyes shut and hunch my shoulders.
"Get in."
"What?" I rasp. God, words hurt. I have to cough and then clear my throat twice before it's not painful to talk. "What?" I repeat. The man starts to roll his eyes, then hesitates. His whole face gentles, the harshness bleeding away.
"Get in my truck," he repeats. "You need a ride, and the closest hospital -"
"NO!" I yelp. My voice echoes around the woods, booming against my eardrums. His eyebrows raise. "N-no, I-I just wanna go home," I mumble. The eyebrows drop and something… not cold exactly, but definitely calculating flashes through those dark eyes.
"Okay. You still need to get in," he says, stepping back towards the truck.
I don't move.
He cocks his head and gives me that critical once-over again. "I like 'em older, girl. Ain't into teenagers," he says bluntly. "'Sides, if I was gonna hurt you, I would have already. You look like you're about to faint or somethin' - you're not putting up much of a fight." My lips twitch at the honesty. He sees the slight smile and chuckles. He's actually got a nice smile for a guy with barely any lips. "C'mon. I'll get you home."
I still don't move.
His eyes narrow and lips press together tightly. "Girl…"
"I don't want to get blood on the seat."
The words pop out of my mouth in a rush. The man stops, lips parting in surprise. Then he smirks and shakes his head. I wait for a comment about odd priorities.
None comes.
"What's on you is mostly dry," he observes shrewdly. "You're not gonna get much on the seat, and what you do, I can most likely brush off. Don't worry about it."
Oh.
"Pick up damsels in distress a lot?" I mutter, finally picking my frozen feet off the ground. He barks out a laugh, emphasis on bark. The guy is one big animal.
"Time or two, girl. Time or two."
His truck is a dingy two-seater but oh god it's warm, and a little moan of pain slips out at the unexpected heat defrosting my skin. He gives me a curious look, eyes wary and sympathetic all at once. "How long were you out there?" he asks softly. I keep my eyes focused on my blood-stained lap, noticing that my nails are perfect and gleaming beneath the scarlet. Hell of a lot longer too. You'd think they'd be ripped to shreds after yesterday…
"Since yesterday, I think. Last night at the very least," I mumble. The heat seeps into my bones and I sigh, tilting my head back. I relish it even as my body shakes so hard my joints click intermittently. The man starts the engine without a word, pulling out onto the road again.
I nearly nod off sitting there. When the truck jerks to a stop my eyes fly open, suddenly registering that I didn't tell him where I live. When I see the pay-by-the-hour hotel panic sets in. I shoot up in my seat and am scrabbling for the door before his big bear hand claps onto my shoulder carefully, barely any pressure behind the gesture. Even still I flinch away from the too-masculine contact, cringing into the seat with a small hiss. His dark eyes are apologetic but determined. "Figured you'd wanna get cleaned up before you went home," he mutters gruffly. I relax slightly, eyes widening. "And hospital or not I need to see if you're injured." Blunt, to the point. Compassionate eyes. I slowly release my stiff muscles and tilt my head.
"Okay," I allow. He looks slightly surprised but nods, stepping out of the vehicle and slamming the door shut swiftly to keep the heat in. I watch him go, curious at this strange man who is so willing to help a young girl in distress. Most probably would have left me, would have taken advantage (as I am oh so aware of now), or would at least have insisted on the hospital. He doesn't. He thinks about getting me clean and wants me to get home safe. It's… well it's what my dad would do. What my dad did five years ago. Never thought I'd run into another Charles Xavier in my life, that's for damn sure.
The man comes back, hotel key clutched in his hand. He jerks his head as he opens the passenger door. "Third one down." I nod and follow him, fighting to keep from wincing as my feet touch the ground. They had finally warmed up and the ice beneath the sensitive skin is not pleasant. I'm pretty sure being carried would be even worse with the way my mind is spinning at the moment.
He opens a peeling red door to a stereotypical white room with a single bed covered in some horrid paisley print, a bedside table, and a vase of fake flowers. "Five minutes max in the shower," he instructs. "Wanna make sure you're not bleeding out, got it? Just get that crap offa you so I can see if you're hurt."
If. Not where.
"You know it's not mine." My voice is barely above a whisper. He hears anyway, nostrils flaring, eyebrow raised. My eyes become fixed on the motion of his nose, watching him inhale. Frankly it's like when Hank smelled something cooking in the kitchen from the lab as Beast.
"If it was yours you'd have been dead long before you got to the road," he says, eyes dark and glinting. "And to the bastard it belongs to, I doubt he's gonna need it back." I shift in discomfort and he sighs. "Clean up. Get you checked out and home."
That… sounds way too good to be true. Dangerous. But I'm not exactly in a position where I could walk without dying of hypothermia. So I nod and trudge over to the bathroom.
I close the door behind me and turn to face the mirror. God it looks even worse under the fluorescent lights. I look too pale beneath the almost black stripes of dried blood covering my face. My lips are blue and chapped from the cold. My hair is a giant knot with dirt and twigs and who knows what else in it. My eyes are too wide and glass-like. If it weren't for the pulse hammering in my throat I would think I was a walking corpse. Shaking my head at the crime-scene-esque photo I make at the moment, I turn from the mirror and flip on the nozzle for the water. Hot water cascades down with the sound of pattering rain. With barely a glance at my shredded clothes I all but rip them off.
It burns and I grunt in pain at first, tensing until my skin warms enough that I can shift around and force my hair beneath the spray without screaming. I hang my head and watch the water stream from my hair, dark red with swirls of black from mud in it, viscous enough I can feel the difference between it and the water beginning to drip down my bare legs. My hands brace against the wall and I squeeze my eyes shut so I don't have to see the gore anymore. When I feel the water become slightly less thick I open my eyes and glance around the rim. There's a cheap bar of soap on one corner, and I grab it, scrubbing so hard I'm pretty sure I take off my entire epidermis. When there's no more dried blood on my skin and the water from my body becomes a transparent pink I tackle my hair, rubbing the bar into the layers of sodden curls until it's a little white nub in my hands and the water is full of clear suds. I finish rinsing out my hair and shut off the water.
I see the problem the lack of debris on my skin covered up as soon as I step in front of the mirror.
I stare at my terrified expression, see how the blood slithers from my face and leaves it paler than ever. With a quick swallow I grab a towel and dry off, abrading viciously at the skin as if there's makeup all over me. But my skin becomes red and nothing changes. Lips trembling and the beginnings of tears forming I bend to pick up my clothes, putting them back on with stilted movements.
The man is waiting in the bedroom, a bundle of cloth in his hands. He's staring at them, his olive skin turning white around the knuckles where he's gripping it. "I figured you'd want some new clo…" He trails off, eyes widening as they take me in. Concern bathes his face and I'm not sure when the tears start to fall. "What's wrong?" he frowns. I giggle, a little hysterically.
"I'm… I'm fine." Another laugh bubbles up. "Perfect."
The man's eyes narrow and he gestures for me to sit. I do, hands clasped together in my lap. He hands me the bundle of clothes. I balk as I realize the implied command. His face softens and he sighs.
"Like 'em older," he reminds me. I nod jerkily, not sure what else to do, and slowly start removing my shirt. His eyes glance critically over me, not an ounce of desire in his gaze. The dark pools become wider as he sees what I was referring to. I pull on the baggy t-shirt before pulling off my jeans, tossing them onto the floor with my shirt. The ones I pull on must be his, far too big width-wise but only a few inches too long. Finally done I look up at him expectantly, frustrated and angry and scared.
"No bruises," he finally says. "No scrapes, no nothing." The tears begin again and I bury my face in my hands. "Girl… You a mutant?" He sounds almost hopeful about it.
"No," I respond. "No I…" I swallow hard, tears leaking down my face. I'm not. I'm not. I would know, I would have known if I was! But…
Elliot broke my wrists. He snapped my ankle. We were rolling around the floor. He gripped my hip so hard I felt the blood vessels burst. He may not have broken my neck but he hit me hard enough I passed out. That should have bruised. I should be one big bruise. And I'm not.
"I don't know."
And that's so terrifying.
The big man sighs from deep in his chest. "Okay. Let's get you home."
XXX-XXX
My savior's name is John Howlett. At least it's the name he gives me when I insist on it. I'm pretty sure it's a fake but whatever. John asks me a lot of questions on the way home - what's your first name (not last), how old are you, what color is that tree, what's your favorite ice cream flavor - and I respond listlessly. Truthfully I think he's worried I have a concussion and wants to keep me awake just in case. He needn't have worried; I don't think I could sleep.
He raises an eyebrow when he sees the mansion but doesn't comment. "Thanks John," I say quietly. He nods and raises an eyebrow.
"You gonna be okay girl?" he asks. I told him my name was Anya. He ignored me and keeps calling me girl. I don't really care to be honest.
"Yeah. I mean… Eventually," I sigh. His gaze wavers and he nods. "Are you going to need -" I break off, pulling on his clothes. He shakes his head quickly.
"Naw. You can keep 'em."
"Probably gonna pitch them." I clap a hand over my mouth in horror. He barks shortly, teeth flashing. He's got surprisingly sharp teeth.
"Wouldn't blame you," he smirks. I sigh in relief and nod. With a heavy heart I open the door to the truck and clamber out, bag of bloody clothes slung over my shoulder.
"Thank you, John," I say, quietly but sincerely. He nods and tilts his head, watching as I start shivering in the soft snow.
"Get inside girl," he commands gently. I bob my head in acknowledgement but give him a look.
"Be careful okay? This snow…" His mouth lifts at the corner with my concern. He tilts his head and gestures at my home with one broad hand.
"I can manage. Get your ass inside before it freezes again." With a small smile I shut the door and trudge over to the front door of the mansion. His truck is gone by the time I turn back to wave at him.
Okay, so maybe not quite like my dad. But close enough.
Someone cranked the heat while I was gone, hitting me like a solid wall. I groan in surprise and shut the door behind me, leaning against it with my eyes closed. My knees are wobbling and I think I might throw up. Any minute now someone is going to turn the corner and see me. God this is so fucked up; how in the hell do I tell my family that I murdered someone?
Footsteps sound across the hall, and then I hear a gasp. I open my eyes and see Annie standing there, eyes so wide the orbs seem ready to pop out of her skull. The shaking in my legs increases until I'm sliding down the door by inches. I swallow hard and try to smile. "Annie…"
She's across the room before I can blink, sweeping me into a bone crushing hug that makes my bones creak in warning. "You stupid motherfucking idiot!" she spits in my ear, tightening her arms around me. I'm too surprised to return the gesture. "What in the hell do you think you are a fucking superhero?" She pulls back and slaps me across the face.
"OW! Annie, what the hell -" I yelp. She's hugging me again before I can even right myself. Funny, I've never noticed until now that she's five inches shorter than me.
"IF YOU EVER STICK ME UNDER A BED AND THEN TAKE ON A FUCKED-UP FRIEND AGAIN I WILL BEAT YOU TO DEATH MYSELF!" she screams in my ear. I feel the stuttering breaths knocking her chest into mine, the dampness on my shoulder, and force my arms to cooperate, to wrap around her and clutch her to me. Only then does the damn break loose for both of us, both of us babbling and crying all at once.
"God, I'm so sorry Annie -"
"I thought you were -"
"I wasn't sure if -"
We dissolve into tears, wrapped around each other and in a heap on the floor.
"Anya." I look up, wiping at my cheeks with my free hand, just in time to be pulled out of Annie's arms and into a set that nearly snaps me in half. Strong and masculine and unfamiliar and holy fuck let me go! I struggle, legs kicking, as I try to place the arms that are none of my brothers' and certainly not my father's wrapped tightly around me. I'm about to bite the exposed shoulder when I'm set on my feet.
Erik.
His green eyes are a little wild, face ashen, hair unkempt. I blink, shock making me limp. His large hands wrap around my shoulders and shake me, not too roughly but hard enough I so feel it. "What in the hell were you thinking?" he growls at me. His eyes flash and his hands pinch a little tighter. I wince and he relaxes enough that he's not hurting me. "Anya!" he snaps angrily. I blink some more, mouth opening in surprise.
"That Annie was -"
"I don't care if Annie was about to be hurt -"
"Thank you ever so," Annie interjects with watery sarcasm. Erik ignores her.
"You get the fuck out of there, understand?! You could have died Anya Edie Lehnsherr!" His eyes are snapping green fire but oh my god I think I just realized that my birth father loves me underneath the anti-human bullshit. He's scared. For me.
I start crying again because hell, I just had a fucking traumatic experience and even though nothing makes sense I survived and Erik loves me and -
"I killed him," I sob. "Oh my God I-I killed Elliot. I killed…" My hand covers my mouth in horror as the words finally slip out. Saying them makes it all so real somehow. Makes the buried body near the oak and the teeth in the river and the hands beneath the rock all tangible and right in my face. Not that I'm seeing too well anyway.
"Elliot's… Elliot's dead?" Annie repeats, partly shock and partly disbelief. Erik's eyes are wide but he doesn't comment. I gasp and nod jerkily. Erik takes his hands off of my shoulders and tugs me forward, embracing me with all the protectiveness of…
Well, of a father.
"Shh, Affe. Shh," he croons into my hair. "It'll be alright. It'll be alright."
Don't be fooled; it's not that easy.
So, let me know what you think!