Infliction
A/N: Hello! Astaline here~ Do enjoy. I'll try to get more stuff out soon. :D I haven't edited this or given it a once over, so do fogive any spelling/grammar mistakes.
Disclaimer: I do not own D. Gray-Man, which rightfully belongs to Hoshino Katsura, nor do I own the song below, Hide, by Red.
Waste away
I'm crawling blind
Hollowed by what I left inside
For you, just you.
I'm caught in place,
But I ignore what I can't erase.
I will run and hide till memories fade away.
And I will leave behind a love so strong.
Close my eyes theses voices say.
Haunting me, I can't escape.
For you, just you .
Time will always wait
While I throw away what I can't replace.
I will run and hide till memories fade away.
And I will leave behind a love so strong.
I will run and hide till memories fade away.
And I will leave behind a love so strong.
I will run and hide!
And I will leave behind!
I will run and hide till memories fade away.
And I will leave behind a love so strong!
---
His wrist is decorated with crimson ribbons, tight against his skin.
Ribbons, eh? That's fancy.
Its scent is overwhelming, the feeling making him high.
He turns the blade over in his hand.
One more. Just one more…?
He swipes it again.
Gently, slowly, quietly, the metal gleams over his skin.
Slowly, surely, more red ribbons pour in a trail behind the glistening metal.
He smiles, sad, bitter.
The rest of his arm burns, desiring to share the agony of his wrist.
Screaming, begging.
What agony, though?
He can't feel a thing.
"We aren't allowed to feel. You aren't allowed to feel. We're Bookmen. And that is our obligation. You should know that by now,-"
The breath hitches in his throat.
His smile fades.
That stupid, stupid name.
His stupid real name.
Cold beads of sweat run down his forehead, around his neck, his shoulders.
He refuses to remember it. That dreaded shred of the past.
Those people. The terror they caused his naïve, pathetic, eight-year-old self.
It comes bubbling to the surface again. The way they chanted his name, the way they called to him.
The way they lied to him, gave him false dreams. The way they betrayed him.
They were pathetic. Cowardly.
Running away, leaving their helpless son to fend for himself. Left him for dead.
Because they feared death.
Feared only for themselves.
It comes in flashes, urgent, terrifying.
Then it disappears.
He looks down.
His hand clutches the blade. His palm, fingers.
It's an explosion of red, ecstasy, adrenaline.
An all time high.
And it has blown away his bleak, seamless thoughts.
It still doesn't hurt though.
His left eye is blank, and empty abyss of green.
His brain is screaming, an unbearable migraine.
But he still can't feel.
His heart is broken, his soul mutilated.
His real name echoes in his head continuously, unyielding, in voices he does not want to hear, does not want to recognize.
He strikes his wrist again, further below the wrist now, around the middle area of his forearm.
The memories cease momentarily. The voices quiet.
He is spared the pain, if only a moment.
His breathing is rugged.
But the time runs out. The flood resumes, memories swirling in his head wildly, ruthlessly.
Ah, the disadvantages of a photographic memory.
He grits his teeth.
He slashes again, deep, oozing.
Further down his arm, the slashes go.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again-
"Lavi?"
The voice is soft, on the other side of the door.
Gentle.
Concerned.
It stops him in his tracks.
He can barely hear it over his own rugged breathing.
They knock again.
His breath catches in his throat.
Maybe is he is quiet, they will figure he is asleep.
And go away.
"Lavi, open the door? Please."
Silence.
"I'm going to stand out here until you open up. I know you're in there."
The knocking resumes.
It pauses for a fraction of a second. Just a fraction.
The person on the other side seems to realise something.
"If you're asleep, I'm going to knock until you get up."
Well, someone is stubborn.
He rises from where he is seated at the edge of the bed, moving quietly to the bathroom. He removes his shirt, his short-sleeved shirt, flinging it into the laundry heap to his left.
Reaching into the cabinet above the sink, he pulls out bandages, holding them in his mouth as he washes the ribbons away.
Such a pity. They had been nice ribbons.
He then washes the blade, carefully rinsing the red liquid away. Tightly, he strangles his arm with the white fabric, hoping the river of red will stop flowing.
He pulls a long-sleeved T-shirt from the wardrobe in the corner, sending the newly washed blade tumbling into its depths, mopping the mess on the floor with a cloth under his foot at the same time.
Evidence hastily disposed of.
He tugs the shirt on, and the bandages disappear from sight.
He ruffles his hair, creases areas of his clothing.
He pulls a sleepy face and opens the door, Allen's fist in his face.
"Whoa Allen. You gonna punch my face in?"
He rubs the back of his neck as if it's sore from sleeping on a rough duvet.
Allen withdraws his fist.
He eyes narrow slightly, curious, suspicious.
"What were you doing? I've been standing here knocking for ages."
He measures his words, careful not to answer to quickly or too slowly.
He yawns, putting everything into the act.
He smiles at Allen.
Poor boy can't tell.
Allen's tense shoulders relax a fraction.
"I was sleeping. What's up?"
The white-haired boy's eyes are curious again, accusing. Sort of.
Accusatory?
'But Allen's not like that.'
"I was just wondering if you're okay. You looked like you had something on your mind yesterday when we got back. So I just came to see if you were alright, in case you needed a friend."
The boy wrings his hands.
Worried, apparently.
He shakes his head, smiling.
"Nah. I'm good. Just needed to catch up on some sleep. Gramps'll be working my ass off around the clock soon."
Allen doesn't look convinced.
Lavi's smile droops. He ruffles Allen's hair.
"I'm seriously fine. Really."
Allen's face is innocent, disappointed.
As if he knows that his friend is hiding something.
"Okay."
Allen smiles faintly.
…
Pulse…
'…what…?'
His arm throbs.
He can't believe this.
Not now.
Shit.
The bandages are coming loose.
Stretching. He can hear their stitches snap.
One by one by one.
He needs to get rid of Allen.
Fast.
'Wait, get rid? That's not right-'
His Bookman's brain has processed this way too fast for his conscience to handle.
"Sorry, Beansprout, but I really gotta hit the sack. Gramps'll be looking for me after lunch time. So I really gotta sleep now."
He glances back into his room, the wall clock in the corner barely visible in the darkness.
"Twenty more minutes."
Allen's face is a picture of worry.
"But you don't eat?"
He rubs the back of his neck again.
He can feel the blood trickling down his other arm.
Allen needs to go. Now.
His face is contradictory to his emotions.
"I've already eaten, Al."
This seems to almost satisfy Allen.
Almost.
"You'll get dinner?"
"Yes."
The blood has reached the tips of his fingers.
"Do you want me to talk to Komui about it?"
He clenches his fist. The sticky liquid is slimy between his fingers.
His blood feels dirty.
It drips to the floor.
"Nah, it's okay. Komui can't do anything about it anyway."
He shrugs.
"Why? Komui should be able to do something, right?"
It leaks from the bandages like a tap now.
He hides his hand behind the door, clutching the doorknob.
The smell of iron is overwhelming.
Allen seems to pick it up.
His eyes widen.
"Lavi. It smells of blood in there…"
Blood smells like iron.
"There're a horde of rusty pipes in the bathroom, that's all."
Allen raises an eyebrow.
"But so much?"
The blood loss is starting to take its toll on his head.
His vision is blurred, fuzzy.
He's getting dizzy.
Allen needs to go. Before he collapses onto the floor there and then.
"Look, Allen."
Another rub of his neck, running his hand through his hair.
"I don't know, maybe there're more pipes than I know of, or maybe there's a dead bird on the window, heck, maybe Yuu's carrying out some weird samurai ritual concerning the sacrifice of some animal. Either way, Komui won't be able to help regarding the previous question, alright? He's signed papers declaring no interference with Bookman matters, which includes this, unless it affects my duties as an exorcist."
Allen's eyes fall, his face crestfallen.
Like a beaten dog.
Even in his dizzying state, the eighteen year-old feels guilty for his harsh words.
"I just… need to sleep. Aite?"
He reaches up, ruffling Allen's hair.
Allen looks at him with puppy-dog eyes.
He smiles.
He feels his gaze wavering, unsteady.
The blood.
The dizziness is overpowering.
Allen frowns.
"Lavi. You're pale."
He stifles a groan of frustration.
When is this boy going to leave?
"It's just the light, Allen."
Allen shakes his head.
"You're really really pale. As white as a sheet."
His vision is failing already.
He closes his eyes and leans on the doorframe, a hand going up to massage his temples.
"Just a headache, Allen."
His hand falls.
A hand touches to his forehead. He jerks away at the sudden heat, his eyes snapping open.
Allen's eyes are wild.
"You're freezing cold, Lavi! What's going on?"
"It's nothing."
His head is spinning. He can't make anything out of the shapes before him anymore.
Too much blood.
Lost.
"Lavi? Lavi!"
He's falling, he can't feel a thing.
Just the smell of iron and the murmur of voices as the world fades to black.
Voices echo around him.
"Kanda! KANDA! HEY! Someone help!"
Hands are holding him up.
"What're you yelling about out here you stupid beansprout?!"
His eyes roll back into his head.
His form goes limp.
"Holy fuck! What the hell's going on?!"
"No time to explain! Get help!"
Footsteps thunder away.
Footsteps.
A shriek.
The sadistic laughter of a murderer.
"Mother…"
"Run!"
"Father…"
"Lavi? LAVI?! Oi, are you okay?! Kanda's gone to get help! Don't-"
The rest of the words become gibberish.
His system shuts down.