Wow. I REEEEEALLY should be revising. I hope this is worth it.
Disclaimer: Disclaimed.
Little songs repeat and laugh inside her head. Her eyes are wide and rambling. IT has been two days since she was given water. Five since she was fed. The light dims and the voice soften and flicker, then rise and rise into a tumult of chaos and colour and movement. Her breathing slows. She presses her grimy palms to the concrete underneath her, wills every pore, every nerve, to feel the world she is leaving behind. Cold and beautifully smooth. Grey. Undecided.
And then the door crashes open and the vibration jars through the ground and resonates, screaming, in her skull. He grasps her by the neck, hauls her forwards and slams her head into a metal trough filled with icy water. He holds her there until her movement becomes desperate and erratic. Ziva David is strong, but she is human, and she does not want to drown. He pulls her away and then allows her to drink. He watches her as she sits, shakily, and attempts to wash herself. There is blood on her chest and arms and the inside of her thighs, on the soles of her feet and the sweetly diminishing knobs of her spine as it curls around her like a kiss. The blood is grainy and flakes away. The dirt – sweat, oil, dust and muck – takes longer. He sits in the broken chair and plays casually with his knife as she scrubs at her skin until it is clean and freshly and pinkly raw. She turns towards him, eyes wide and dark in confusion and gratitude. She is half dead and waking. The scarring symbol on her right cheek glints in the sunlight. A beautiful star.
"Ziva David." He flicks open his knife and sees the shine of her reflection for a second. And then he advances, pushing her back down. She accepts the crack of concrete to her skull with something resembling a curious relief. She can barely keep her eyes open as he straddles her and leans towards her face with his wicked, wicked blade so close to her eyes.
"Ziva David. Let me tell you a little something about this knife. I sharpen it every night before I go to bed, and every morning when I wake up. When I slice into your skin it is with ease. I do not have to hack. Do you understand me?"
Her eyelids flutter as she nods.
"Good. Then you'll understand how effortlessly this will slip into your eyeballs. They are like grapes, Ziva. I know it's not a pleasant analogy, but they are. They are little sacs of water and jelly. And you have no idea how much you need them. Rely upon them. Value them."
She begins to cry then. The tears well up as if in protest of the words they are hearing. They spill from her eyes and run down into the remnants of her hair. The blade draws closer.
"Ziva. When I remember you, I want to remember that night in July. When you were young and whole and fresh. Not like this. Not emaciated and hacked at, bleeding and filthy. Not with gaping red holes for eyes."
A sob tears from her throat and she tries to turn her head away. The image is painfully childlike. She writhes on the floor underneath him, repeating unintelligible sounds. No, please, please, I can't, I don't, oh God, Tony, Tony...
The blade draws closer and she screams. It slams into her flesh. Between her ribs and collarbone, close to her shoulder. Her eyes and mouth open, and she does not breathe. He yanks it away, wipes the blood on her belly, kisses her goodnight and leaves her to bleed.
He wakes, packs, phones, leaves, flies.
Once more, her vision darkens and blurs. Shapes emerge from the walls and engulf her, whispering, devouring. McGee. He opens his mouth to speak but hears something as he does so and instead stares down at her with an abandoned and bewildered expression. Abby cries for her, but does not move. Ducky shakes his head and sighs, a sad and resigned expression on his world-weary face. She sees Gibbs. Tries to mumble his name but he turns and stares down at her with pity and contempt. Turns away. And Tony. He is repulsed and gloating. I was right. You crawl back to me, beg forgiveness. I was right and you were wrong. Little Ziva David. Not so clever now, are you? Not so confident in your own unfounded capabilities. Ziva, if someone puts a bullet through your head, you will die, I promise you. You. Will. Die. Don't believe me?
He holds up a gun, smoky and blurred in the grey dust of dawn, and pulls the trigger.
The room is small and square and grey. The room has one barred window, high up in the wall, and one wooden chair. The room has one barely breathing body, and a mess of dark, dead curls strewn on the floor. It is covered in blood and grime and desperation. She is broken and naked. The light changes, bleaching sun with day and grotesque bloated shadows at night. Her body remains the same. She does not move.
Bang bang bang. Footsteps. Bang. Bang. Shouts. Bang bang, bang bang bang. Boots hit concrete and warm stubborn fingers wrench at a door. It opens, creaking and musty. The light from the window falls, in slats, across a body. This body is covered in pain. It is dusty and bruised. Bones have broken. Ribs shine like grimaces through tight white skin. The soft curve of a skull, with shy dark feathers, protects the closed eyes and peaceful mouth of the young and hopeless. Static crackles. Voices murmur, mutter, shout. Footsteps pound. More faces, expectant and impatient with bloodlust. Skilful hands dance across her breathing corpse. The comforting repetition of one word. Ziva. Ziva. Tears fall from men's eyes and they are brushed away, ignored and forgotten in the bundle of limbs and bones and skin and heat that used to be someone they knew.
Look! I saved her! And although I haven't totally decided yet that she's not going to be, you know, paralysed from the eyeballs down, it's still good, right? Yayyyy *does a little celebratory Ziva's-saved dance*
Enjoy. And also - reviews make me happy :)