Prompt: I don't know, I think I was just going out of my mind when I wrote this
Rating: T+
Warnings: Violence, insanity, particularly choking.
I don't remember what spawned this at all. I think it had to do with the Hunger Games simulator causing a lot of death and pain and then we decided Break needed to attack Sharon.
She wasn't supposed to see him like this—that's the last thing he remembers thinking clearly.
he's laughing, a broken sound in more ways than one; it sticks in his dry throat like glass shards, making only more blood come up as he coughs between fits of hysteric giggling. blood is dripping from his sword, too—right, that's right, she walked in while he was coating it in such—he drops it when she calls out to him, but the laughter isn't getting any quieter.
he's the red-eyed phantom, a killer stained with innocent red down to his bones—his white boots, his white coat, his white hair, his red eyes (eye? he only has one eye)—he's taken more lives than he remembered to count (he lost track after the first few dozen; didn't someone tell him his body count, once?). he has to do it, he enjoys it (he convinced himself of that a long time ago), he craves it (it's so deeply etched into his being that he must)—
his eye's looking nowhere at all and she's still calling out to him (stop saying that word, stop it, stop); she can't see him like this (he can't be seen like this, they'll find out who he is and they'll stop him, he can't let that happen). he's still grinning as he lunges at her—she topples easily—she's fragile, childish, light, weak, god she'd be so easy to break.
—does he want to break her?
his hands are around her neck and she's crying (he can't stand that, don't cry, don't cry)—he can see her but he can't make out her features (she's someone he failed, someone he loves, someone he may as well have killed)—her neck is soft and smooth and gives nicely—
he's still smiling, gaze frenzied (brother—brother? is he someone's brother?) as he presses down on her neck and her voice is getting quieter, weaker (he almost couldn't get enough of that, of how she's sputtering in pain, except she's crying like that and it hurts more than the fire in his lungs does)
her fingers are slim and girlish but they're gripping tight onto his wrists, trying to stop him—he's been held by those hand before, so many times, he's held them and protected them and what the hell is he doing—
All at once he jerks back, lets her gasp for breath as he stumbles, falls back—in that instant his laugh has turned to gasping and his wild grinning to a look of pure horror. He scrambles backwards, hand coming across his sword—he's killed someone, maybe several people, probably people he was supposed to, but he feels completely sick with himself—at least she's breathing, that's the one solace he can take.