Title: New Breed: DOG BYTE
Summary: Sometimes, love is displayed by moral execution. Brutality becomes a mask; the goggles are merely a security factor to strengthen his resolve. [GORE-PRONE MATT-CENTRIC!]
Disclaimer: I don't own DN or anything referenced.
Author's Note: This chapter is a bit of a doozy. The events in it are NECESSARY for what I want to accomplish, but I'm relieved to be done with it and working on the THIRD chapter. I should have Mello in this fic BY THE FOURTH! And with any luck, that's where things will get more interesting -as if they're not wicked already. XD
...
It was dark, save for the static of the television for that evening as a young redhead sprayed another coat of Lysol disinfectant over his mother's degenerating corpse. Her skin, no longer holding the pale glow of a fresh victim, had turned a dirty color similar to that of a wilted old pumpkin; that almost brown flesh hung loosely over her skeletal frame, her eyes were sunken and turning black, rotting. Flies and maggots squirmed beneath her pale brown-grey flesh, and all the little boy could do was hope to preserve her for as long as possible, even as he set the disinfectant aside and climbed into her lap, there was no comfort there, no warmth, not even a plush bosom to nuzzle against. Her skin was too thin and saggy, ripping as easily as paper if he jostled too rough against her. She was almost completely devoid of fluids and entrails by now, but she was still rotting and falling apart.
Right before his eyes, she was slipping further and further away.
Even the constant use of Lysol and Bleach couldn't keep the stench away for long, though he continued to try day by day and week by week.
"Can't let you leave me, momma," he said in a hushed voice, eyes wide with worry as he stared into a face that was once full of love and smiles. Almost pained, he tried to remind her of happier times with a half-broken smile of his own, only to find himself angered when the smile faltered. His face crushed into a look of anguish and he released a violent sob, eyes leaking and hands balling into fists as he pounded against his mother's chest, as if the act itself would revive her. His hands thrashing into her, he could feel her ribs and cautioned himself not to injure her or ruin her further.
She was far too precious for that.
Another sob tore through him as he spoke. "Wh-Why'd you leave me all alone, momma?" He sniffled and jerked away, wiping his face with the back of his hand before clearing his throat. "I-I still love you, momma. I'll keep you safe." He nodded, though his eyes betrayed the assurance he wanted to offer. His eyes, a misty shade of green, red-rimmed with emotion and lidded like anime puppy eyes.
Forcing himself to get up from her lap, he crossed the room to turn the TV off, static turning to black soundless nothing. Left in the dark, he could pretend his mother was okay, that she was living and breathing the same as himself.
That made him smile. His stomach growled and it made him release a nervous sort of giggle.
Looking towards his maternal figure -but not seeing her due to the oppressive sanction of darkness- he found himself asking: "Hungry, momma?" His voice was meek as he spoke. When he received no answer, he sighed audibly and decided to at least feed himself... right after dousing the kitchen floor in another gallon of bleach that he'd obtained from a closet filled solely with cleaning supplies, disinfectants, detergents, and various chemicals in powder or liquid form most of which contained a WARNING or CAUTION label.
Taking the bleach to the kitchen and removing the cap, his eyes took in the morose stain of brownish-pink where blood had remained too long on the previously white tiles. A small part of him mourned the stain, seeing it as an imperfection that could have been avoided... if only he'd cleaned the mess up sooner. If only the stench of decay would stop reminding him of the horror that befell. If only...
With a heavy sigh, he tilted the container. Bottoms up, it poured and splashed with the impact of gravity, staining the redheaded boy's denim-clad pant legs. He watched the chemical pool over the tiles, stretching wide and getting thinner until it covered such a vast amount of surface area.
Feeling a little nauseous at inhaling the bleach, he pulled the collar of his shirt up over his nose and held it for a moment, as if the striped cotton fabric would act as a gas mask and filter his oxygen. As if a little extra taint in his lungs would make a difference to the wheezing breaths that came and went. As if...
Making a last-ditch decision to leave the bleach and mop it up at a later time, he took large careful strides and exited the kitchen, pulling his face free from his shirt-mask as he did. He gulped in air and leaned against the hallway wall. His cheeks were flushed against his otherwise pale skin, and he tried desperately to ward away the oncoming headache; still, as he inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, half-smelling and half-tasting the chemical-polluted air, he couldn't bring himself to care.
His concern was the foul stench that just wouldn't leave. The acrid odor that reminded him of a cross between old bloodied hamburger and that dead skunk he'd found on the side of the road one day when he and his mother had gone for a walk.
Then again, if he really thought about it, the skunk might have smelled just a little better.
He squeezed his eyes shut and lumbered about, walking aimlessly from room to room, trying to decide on a simple food he could manage. He wasn't about to try to cook anything and risk a fire or accident while his mother was inside, helpless. He knew there was a fair amount of non-perishables, though he'd eaten all the cereal and most of what could be heated in the microwave. There was still various canned foods, if he got hungry enough.
He just... had no real appetite or desire to eat, though his stomach growled an angry taunt, begging for nourishment.
Nourishment that he openly denied.
He eventually found himself sifting through the chemical-infested closet once more, not entirely sure what he was looking for, if anything. In the back of his young mind, he supposed he was taking inventory, trying to find out how much bleach and laundry soap he had to work with, what scents of Pine Sol might hide the horrid odors that kept him up at night. That's when he found the Algenate and Plaster of Paris, and while most little boys wouldn't know what those agents and reactants were, this particular boy was just eccentric enough to know the uses, the properties, and even the majority of the precautions.
And before he could stop himself or even think to question the matter, an idea had formed and solidified.
Algenate. Plaster. Mould. Project. Busy work.
First up, he'd gather supplies, most -if not all- of which he knew to be around his home. Gathering up what he deemed necessary, he settled everything at a makeshift work station that had been previously used for his mother's own private 'clay station...' back when his mother went through a pottery phase.
With a grunt, he shirked the memory away, gathered what was needed and found himself seated.
Finally, he could begin his work, starting with creating an Algenate negative impression of his own palate. Utilizing a small container that would work as a makeshift dental tray- it was a small decorative tin, but he supposed it would do the trick for what he had in mind- he made a solution of water and Algenate powder inside the tin, let it sit for a moment and then put the tin-tray into his mouth just long enough for the solution to stick and harden. Finally, he wiggled the tray and pried it from his mouth before examining the impression of his teeth, gumline, and upper palate.
It was a negative impression. For his intent, he'd need to use the negative to forge a positive.
Logic, science, chemical mixtures. Common sense and creativity was just a bonus.
What he had in mind, it was a fairly simple process for DIY dentures, not that he needed them. But the idea that came to mind was one he couldn't shake; one that might hold him and his mother even closer.
The reality of the situation was, despite everything, a deep, dark part of him found fear and distaste for snuggling up to the cold empty corpse, but he didn't want to lose her. Her body was rotting away, but her structure was still a comfort. He wondered vaguely, if he could do it, carry on with what he had in mind... If he could... tear her down, make her into something useful.
Like the Indians did with Buffalo. They took the hair and hides and bones and meat...
Surely, his mothers meat -or what was left of it- was rancid and infectious with bacteria and parasites, so that would be rendered useless, but... he was clever. He would make use of the rest of her.
A warm feeling pooled in the pit of his stomach and spread throughout him, allowing him a calm smile as he waited for the algenate to fully harden.
Like with any mould for any form of classic artistry, he'd need something to keep the product from sticking. Vaseline or some kind of oil would do the trick; he settled for PAM non-stick cooking spray, just a thin coating of it as if he were going bake a cake or something rather than construct a gruesome denture.
He placed his tin tray within another that was slightly larger and would act as a dam to avoid unnecessary mess and contain the plaster work he wanted to do. He took the Plaster of Paris and mixed it 2 parts plaster to 1 part water, mixing it until it was thin and smooth. Then he was able to pour his plaster into the negative mould, careful and slow to avoid air pockets and bubbles of imperfection. When he was satisfied, he was a bit more liberal with pouring until the teeth and palate were fully covered.
It takes roughly fifteen minutes for the plaster to start hardening, during which, the redhead sat in a chair and idly kicked his feet as he hummed a random tune he'd made up in his head.
There was no reason to feel worried or sick.
This was a science project.
Some people made a potato-powered clock, and others resolved the idea of skinning their dead mother and using her bones to make dentures while forgoing the idea of using acrylic teeth.
It was a perfectly normal and harmless activity for any nine year old.
Nevermind that the redhead had forgotten to put on gloves, and the chemical agents had irritated his skin and set his nerve endings aflame.
His hands and wrists itched and burned, but he ignored it. He ignored how his fingers turned colors like an oxidized coin.
Fifteen minutes came and passed but the plaster mixture didn't quite look solid; this caused a frown to tug at the corners of his lips. "I-I know I did it right," he murmured, brows knitting together in confusion. Grabbing up the container of Algenate powder, he read the label. "It-It can take up-up to an-an hour." His words came out choked, nervous, full of repetition and stutters when he least wanted it to. He swallowed imaginary bile and tried to think of what he could do while he waited an additional 45 minutes.
He looked at the clock.
He kicked his feet.
He hummed and mumbled words to songs he only knew small parts of.
He looked at the clock.
Time progressed too slowly and he grew restless.
With an agitated groan, he got up and left his work station and began to get his mind focused on another pending task, one that he'd been putting off for days- How long had it been since his mother's... disembowelment? Sometimes it seemed so much longer, but most of the time, he could remember her voice as if she'd spoken just yesterday. There were times when her death was all he could thing about, and other times he genuinely forgot.
Blinking back a prickling sensation behind his eyes, he steeled his resolve and acquired a pair of kitchen shears- the very set his mother had warned him could easily 'slice through chicken bone.' And then he took a slow and daunting trek to the living room where his mother's body remained. Scissors in one hand, he used the other hand to peal back the quilt for the first time since he'd covered her up.
The sight beneath the blanket made his stomach churn and his eyes water. The bandages he'd wrapped her with were a dirty, ugly color. Little brown and white worms wriggled in and out of sores on the flesh. His mother's breasts once small and perky were sagged and veiny and a nasty ashen color.
There were so many sores, skin gaping and peeling but no blood to seep out. His mother was dry on the inside, tattling just how long it had been since her demise.
His face scrunched up in horror and he half-choked on a sob.
This wasn't right. It was more than ten kinds of wrong. He felt sick and couldn't help the rush of heat and stomach acid that climbed his esophagus as he doubled over and lost what little his stomach had to offer. Vomiting and panting and vomiting again, he felt sick and weary, unable to catch his breath.
"S-Sorry, momma," he whispered, not sure what else to say or do. But, taking another breath and forcing his trembling body to calm as much as he could, he reached to his mother and set to work. He had too much to do if he were to salvage her, and he'd waited much too long already.
He started with her hair- snip-snip.
Ribbons of red hair came out by the handful and the little boy set them aside for sentimental value. He loved his momma's hair, so pretty and it aways smelled so nice. Her hair was special.
Nearly bald with only a few tendrils of red left on her head, the woman sat there, a pitiable sight.
But her son wouldn't be deterred. Nearly gagging on the lump that formed in his throat, he pressed a shaky scissor-wielding hand towards his mother. The blade ripped the skin with the slightest pressure and he began to cut.
Snip-Snip!
The skin came away so easily, almost like foam latex but more delicate and almost brittle. In some places, her skin had toughed similar to leather, but it was still no match for the cutting blades.
Before long, she was little more than bones and rotted tissue as her son dropped a pile of dead flesh to the floor. That pile of flesh... a skin-suit, almost latex. He'd stripped her skin from skull to toe.
Now, staring at her more naked than she was when he'd first removed her clothes, he took in the sight.
This is what death looks like, he reasoned, staring more at a skeleton than a person.
This is what made her absence bearable, the true understanding that while she existed, she stopped being human. The knowledge that she'd turned into something lifeless wasn't detrimental on his love for her; it enhanced his desire to keep her safe, to protect her, to remain with her in the same sad way that no child wants to give up a security blanket or favorite stuffed animal.
The pile of flesh, his eyes glanced at it and his gaze remained there; he couldn't look away. He'd seen it while it was on her, felt the sick cold and clammy texture of it as he tugged it from her infrastructure, but he'd done it with a nearly detached disposition. And now, he had to stare, to understand, to truly see what had become of this - of her.
The coloring was all wrong and the texture was borderline rubbery. For a moment, he thought of putting it on like a costume; it truly looked like one. The thought made him giggle because it was so silly. So terrible. So... considerable. In the end, he decided to sleep on the issue and worry about it later... after he'd cleaned the bugs out and stitched up the gaping sores and wounds. Then, maybe...
In his mother's skull were a set of black gleaming eyes speckled with dust, rotted away like old eggs. No longer white with blue-green irises and black pupils. Just... rotten sightless orbs, brownish-black and smelling like bad meat. Soured.
For a moment, he wondered if she could see him, not with her physical self but in a spiritual sense. If maybe, her ghost would linger and watch over him. The thought made his heart sink. He wasn't doing anything she'd be proud of. She'd wanted him to study, to be smart, to grow up and be someone important. But all he'd been doing is wallowing and trying to cling onto something that was slipping away a little more each hour.
He felt sick again.
But he pressed onward, narrowing his eyes and deciding that what he was doing was indeed important.
Surely his mother could understand.
Another quick breath and he reached both hands out, his fingers laced around his mother's skull and his thumbs pressed her eye sockets. With just a little pressure, his thumbs pinched through the eyes as if they were rotting vegetables. Cold but not quite slimy. He pushed them in as far as he could.
"Just like when you used to cover my eyes, momma," he said, as if explaining himself to her. "When I got scared during a movie, you'd cover my eyes to hide me from the scary stuff. I-I wanted to do the s-same for you. But it's not the same, I know. This way, you won't be scared, not anymore. Not ever again. Pretend, like, my hands are always over your eyes. I'll be your eyes. I'll tell you when it's safe to look again."
He tried to smile. Tried being the key word.
He held his mother's skull between his hands as gently as possible, pulling his thumbs from the emptied sockets and running them across her cheekbones in a loving manner. Drawing back he dropped a hand down and laced his fingers with his mother's own bony phalanges. His fleshy hand holding her dead one just a little too tightly. A shiver racked his body and her bones jostled in an almost comical way, making an eerie rattling sound like that of Halloween wind chimes.
He barked a humorless laugh that fell into a fit of wheezing. And then he held her hand even tighter, needing support that couldn't be offered. Unconsciously, he squeezed tighter and tighter, his own knuckles turning white like his mother's until... SNAP!
His eyes widened in shock and his mouth hung open in horror. He stared, almost unseeing for several long seconds before allowing his brain to process the fact that his own unsteady grip had broken his mother's fingers right off her hand. He still held those fingers in his own grip, cold, not quite chalky, and hard.
Three long boney fingers. Index, middle, and ring fingers.
Uncertainly, he drew back further from the corpse and brought those broken skeletal fingers to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to them, as if he were a prince kissing the hand of a fair maiden.
His lips against the foreign texture of bone, he couldn't help the smile, his insides a torrent of confusion and mixed emotions. He seemed to be constantly struggling between unrelenting mirth and uncontrollable hurt. But for now, he was at least safe, and he'd keep his mother safe.
Keeping the fingers in his hands, he'd return to the skeletal frame at a later time. For now, he'd continue with his little science project.
Dragging his feet along the floor, half-stumbling as he carried three fingers in one hand and the pair of nearly forgotten shears in his other, he headed back to his work station and glanced at the clock.
The timing was good enough.
Using the shears, he sat at the table and proceeded to cut apart the segments of fingers with ease and line them up accordingly. He had nine little pieces when he was done.
Removing the fully hardened Plaster of Paris from the dam and easily pulling it from the negative mould, he was left with a positive impression, which is what he needed. A base plate. He trimmed the positive with the shears and cleaned up the rough edges with a small strip of sandpaper.
He procured and mixed pink acrylic powder and monomer and applied a thin layer to the palate and gumline of the positive base plate. While he waited for the mixture to 'cure' and set in, he took the sand paper to the finger bones, gradually grinding them down to something small, pointed and usable. Then, selecting the best six, he took some Blu Tack and began to adhere the bones where his teeth would go.
In no time at all, though the work was considerably tedious, he'd completed his project. A partial denture with his mother's finger bones in place of fake teeth. Testing it out, he slipped the plate into his mouth and secured it to the best of his ability; it suctioned in place and he tested it against his tongue.
His new teeth appeared grey-white and were pointed like that of a canine's mandible. In his mind, they looked cool, were hardly functional, and were a reminder of his mother. The sentimental value was immeasurable and it was a clever project to keep him busy.
The feel of his tongue pressing into the plate was foreign and strange, but he found that it didn't hinder his speech as much as he expected. There was a slight lisp when he tried to speak, but given his tendency to stutter and lack of social behavior, he supposed it would go unnoticed. -And it's not like school would be an issue. He'd always been home-schooled. A fact that he'd always been grateful for.
Pleased by his own handy work, he began to clean up, put away the chemicals and supplies, and ultimately trek to the bathroom to get a better view of his handy work. Entering the bathroom, he looked in the mirror and his eyes widened at what he saw.
It had been too long since he'd seen himself. Vanity be damned.
Red, beautiful red, his hair. After tending his mother's own beautiful hair, he'd nearly forgotten that his own was just a shade brighter, and it was breathtaking. His own eyes, vibrant green and a little sunken -not like his mother, but just enough to show his lack of sleep. And his skin, pale as porcelain... flawless, save for his active hands that were littered with small scars and imperfections.
He focused on what he saw, the beautiful stranger that stared back at him. When he smiled, his reflection mimicked him, and the finger-bones that covered his teeth looked so out of place... but the sight of them -what they represented- made his smile genuine.
In the mirror, he comically tried different expressions with the teeth in; he snapped at his reflection to amuse himself and felt right giddy when he did.
Carefully, he removed the denture and looked it over with pride. He couldn't wear it all the time without his own teeth beginning to wither, so he'd save them for a special occasion. For now, he had to go show his momma.
A gleeful smile in place and fake teeth in hand, he all but ran from the bathroom to the living room, turned the lamp on for better lighting and turned to his mother. "S-See?" he said to her, holding out his creation. "It's a part of you that I can keep with me. Whenever I want. When I eat, it'll be like... you're eating with me. And when I talk, it'll be like... I dunno." He looked puzzled then. Part of him knew what he wanted to say, but his mind wouldn't allow the words. Not wanting to stress on the matter, he pushed the thoughts away and forced a smile. "Bet you're proud of me, huh? I can do other projects. With your skin and your... pretty... pretty... pretty bones."
Biting his lip, he reached a hand towards her skull before timidly pulling away and shaking his head. An awful feeling wrenched in his gut and made him draw back.
"We-We'll worry about that later," he mumbled nervously. "F-For now, stay as intact as you are." He looked thoughtful, then troubled. He lowered his head and with a heavy sigh, he said "Maybe I should take you to the basement. No matter what I do, you... don't smell so good." His heart felt heavy, his head swam in a sea of sudden loathing. "If someone were to come over, what would I say?" He looked to her with wide watery eyes, looking for guidance.
His mother gave no reaction.
Unsure of what to do, he ground his teeth together and turned on the television. Then he seated himself on the couch and stared emptily at the screen.
Batman. He always loved the show. Adam West was his favorite actor. And he loved the comic references: BAM! POW! WHACK!
In time, his tension eased and he held a serene smile. "I could do that, y'know. Be like Batman and Robin. They don't have superpowers or anything," he said, sitting up eagerly and leaning towards the TV. "Not hard. Just... wear a costume, hide your identity, and fight crime." His face took on a thoughtful expression before steeling into something more determined. "Someone hurt you, momma. That's why you're like this, so quiet. You're too quiet." He looked over his partial denture and pulled his face into a tight, angry expression. "Someone hurt you and tried to take you away from me. But... you're still here. I saved you. And I can keep saving you." He glanced at his mother's skeletal self. "I could... go after your killer. I could... make things right. I really could..."
His eyes darted back and forth, not looking at anything in particular but needing to do something while his mind took rein of the ambush of thought, idea, logic, and reason. A mental battle ensued, and his head began to pound. Dropping the denture into his lap and pressing the heels of his hands to his temples, he let out a cry of distress as his mind began to collapse inward.
Panting and calming himself, composure slowly returned though his breathing remained erratic.
"S-Someone hurt you, momma," he said, voice bitter. "They did this to you. But I'll make it right. I promise. But first, how about some coffee?"
...
/I've got a jump on the next chapter. It's been awkward and creepy until now; next chapter just gets plain violent! I'll happily take suggestions for weapon use. Ideally, yeah, guns, but really, where's the creativity in that?! I wanna work with some close combat, hands-on bloody work. Baseball bat? Metal crowbar? Hammer? Shovel? Katar dagger? The possibilities are endless!/