Chapter Eight
Steal These Sins and Maybe Guilty Wins
"She is still a prisoner of her childhood; attempting to create a new life, she re-encounters the trauma."
― Judith Lewis Herman, Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence - From Domestic Abuse to Political Terror
Warning: gore, blood, non-explicit sex scene/canon x oc
"You'll find usefulness here," Hojo cackled, resting the scalpel to my eye. Yes, I will find usefulness here. I had lost favour with my back, weak and lacking constitution. I had failed to show my usefulness as a child—a child that had the world seemingly on her shoulders. The tattoo on my back... there lied a secret no one could crack, so I was left to the wayside, forever looking in. It was only until recently that I found favour in an unlikely place. "Welcome home, Helena," I could hear him whisper in my ear as images played behind my eyelids of gentle hugs and warm grass, somewhere in the fields of Junon—my home. But I was finally home. Albeit being in his eyesight. I found my home again.
I opened my eyes after some time of twilight sleep. He was standing in the corner of the room by the door, keeping a watchful glare. I turned my back, whimpering as I did so. I wanted Kathe to rub my aching back, perhaps spreading some hydrocortisone on the raised skin. Sephiroth said nothing as I cried in his presence, my back crawling. "I will soon have the Black Materia in my possession," he said so matter-of-factly that I snapped in reaction, trying to push through his form and escape. He held me back, hand caught in my thick locks and pulling my chin slightly. He wanted me to look at him in the eyes, I refused, looking past him. "You'll offer the spell. That tattoo on your back is the key."
Now, we waited. I had succumbed to pain as he pierced my chest and lost consciousness. When I woke up, my hand desperately searching for the open wound, I noticed I was in a room and there was nothing - not even blood. But he was there. He was sitting at the foot of the bed, binding me to the bed. "You can scream all you want, no one will hear you. You can fight me, but you won't win. You can try to bargain, you're not going anywhere," he stated, snapping the bind across my ankle. I searched for the gap in my chest and only sensed a hollowness. I wasn't going anywhere, and he was about to accomplish what he had searched for since his death. He was beyond, and I was here, in this empty room.
"They'll find me," I threatened, my only weapon nowhere in sight.
"And then what?" He laughed. "I will kill them both. I might even have you watch," he threatened in turn, watching as I shrunk into my sheets for safety.
I forgot what he looked like, only having glimpses of him in my dreams and visions of him. He was wearing his Shin Ra uniform, chest bare, unassuming—a spit in Shinra's face. I wondered if Shinra saw it coming; I wondered if his death was as brutal as he made Sephiroth out to be. I watched as he sat in the only chair in the corner of the room, placed beside the door, long legs crossed and arms crossed across his midsection. The leather crunched under the weight of his movements. I was sure Shinra must have heard something. Poor fucker.
"You should rest." The man before me spoke, wearing skin unlike the voice that was produced.
"I'm not tired." I let out a huff; this exchange offered a glimpse of a life once lived, now long ago.
He stood from his stoop, taking a pill bottle from the nightstand. "Take these. Two of them."
"You're going to make me? Force feed them to me?" I was guarded and fearful of the twitch on his face; his eyebrow rose and a smirk lay playfully on his lips. I took two and dry swallowed, knowing he wouldn't give me water.
I knew it wouldn't take long. I had taken them before, albeit with a chaser of Knowlespole vodka. "Tell me a story." I felt high; I felt free, and the words flowed as such. Sephiroth used to tell stories he heard from the nicer scientists who would sneak in bedtime stories. I cried too much for them to feel like they had a moment to spare. Sephiroth was quiet and would just listen. He would tell me stories through the vents, and I would listen.
"There was once a prince that lived in a tower." He would start his stories with a prince in a tower. And before he would continue any further, I would drift off, his voice accompanying me. I stretched out my hand to him; I wanted him to hold my hand. He took me by the wrist and tucked my hand under the pillow. Just like he would—touch never being his signature, despite the fact that I was desperately touch starved. I closed my eyes, imagining the prince in his tower, looking down, watching the world burn around him—as he willed it.
Somewhere in the distance, I could hear Kathe call my name, crying it. He captured me and brought me into his tower. She was below, and I felt nothing but profound guilt. She was calling in the soft air filled with snow, her voice dampened by the freshly laid snow. Jofrey was following behind her. He noticed the trail of blood ended somewhere in the snow, and all that was left were footprints that were quickly becoming erased by the falling snow. Kathelyn was becoming erratic as she noticed the trail was becoming cold. The town of Icicle was quickly coming into view, and she noticed children were playing in the tracks. She called to them but startled them, and they scattered. She was prepared to knock at every door, if need be.
"She's got to be here." The sound of her voice was nothing more than a hiss at this point, the cold air racking her body.
"We need to find shelter. The temperature will drop soon." Jofrey was worried for Kathelyn; she was lost in her own drive to find her sister and save her.
"We need to knock at every single fucking door!" She snapped, her arms open, the cold air rushing into her body. She knew they had to be somewhere in town and not up the mountain. She knew Sephiroth wouldn't want his capture to die, yet.
"And then what? If you're right and you saw what you saw, we can't fight him. We need to plan this out. We need shelter." Jofrey felt like he was the only stability in this trio, and it was triggering a deep sense of regret. But something pulled him forward. He saw me as a child, Kathelyn barely caring for me; he saw me like a little brother he once had.
Kathelyn acquiesced and followed him further into Icicle. The air in Kathelyn's lungs escaped in surprise. "This is Gast's home," she had recognized it from pictures he once showed her as a graduate student. He was so happy he had bought a little chalet in the mountains. She was surprised it took so long for Shin Ra to find him and Ilfana. Like a woman possessed, she entered the home, turned on the lights, and stood in the doorway, allowing the cold air to waft through. "This is his home." She didn't want to believe he was gone; all that knowledge was gone with him.
Jofrey followed her in, closing the door behind him and watching as she looked through a catalog of video tapes strewn around the floor. Shin Ra—or rather, Hojo—had looked through the tapes Gast was known to keep around of his experiments and determined some to be worthless to keep. Once piqued her interest, and she slipped it into the videotape player.
"What is-?" Jofrey started.
Kathelyn placed a finger on her lips.
"The Black Materia," a woman's voice on the tape started, the image blackened, "began with a dark consciousness. The Cetra who commanded the world be returned to the Lifestream, the greater consciousness of the universe around it, had created the Black Materia. As a response, the consciousness of the planet created the White Materia. This is the Materia I will give Aerith. The Black Materia is hidden. I have heard it is locked in a Temple."
Kathelyn listened as the woman, Ilfana, explained how the Cetra, in a last ditch effort, had circumvented disaster before by binding the Black Materia to a spell. "Those who felt like the Planet wanted them to call onto the Black Materia had tried so before, and we Cetra found a way to avoid the spell being cast: a spell bound to someone of Cetra blood, marked with a tattoo."
Kathelyn stopped the recording and looked to Jofrey. "Helena has the tattoo. Our - her mother gave it to her. She's much more Human than Cetra at this point, but I am sure that Sephiroth wants that tattoo."
"I know. You said something to that effect in Nibelheim. I'm following, don't worry."
Kathelyn ironically let out a laugh, "No, you don't understand. He has her, and he most likely has the Black Materia. That's it. We lost. She lost."
"Do you see a big meteor in the sky? No? Then we haven't lost yet. We push forward. We find her, we save her, we win."
"I wish I had your confidence."
"I have no choice. We have no choice. Smarten up, and we knock at every single door." Jofrey helped Kathe to her feet.
What they didn't know was that I wasn't in town, I was certain of that by the scenery in the window. Not a building in sight. I begged for them to find me, fearful that we had indeed lost.
I woke with a start, hands clasping at my neck for air. Apnea was setting in from the heavy medication I was taking, but he couldn't care less. He reached over to the pill bottle and offered me one small white tablet. It was better to sleep than to be awake and see him—the man that was no longer the boy I knew. But what made me question all of this was why I was asleep at all? "Why haven't you used the Black Materia?"
"It's not in our possession yet. Soon the great Reunion will bring it to us, and we will use you then."
"We? You mean..."
"Yes, Sephiroth is just beyond the glaciers. We will all reunite. I know you can feel it," he clasped his hand around my wrist, pulling me closer. "You must certainly feel it."
"You're losing it," I hissed, attempting to snake my way out of his grasp.
"So are you. It must make you feel whole to be so close to us. I wonder if you ever thought you would be here, with him." He lifted his free hand and tilted my chin to meet his eyes. My blood ran cold. My arms felt numb. My eye throbbed. My legs twisted themselves in the sheets. I, indeed, felt whole.
"You're not getting this tattoo." I got up, tripping over the sheets and my tether.
He laughed, watching intently. "What are you going to do? Peel your skin? Please, Helena. You need to rest." He placed the pill in my hand, puppeteering my wrist upwards to my mouth. Weak, I obliged and swallowed. Curling up within myself, I sat on the ground. He was watching me. I had lost.
"You will find it uncomfortable to lay on the ground," he said, standing over me.
"Fuck you," I spat, pushing away his attempts to bring me into the bed. It was odd to see him act in a caring manner—odd and destabilizing.
He picked me up from the ground with minimal effort; I found it alluring but bit my tongue to avoid the thought spiraling outwards. I never found him attractive. I never found him beautiful. I never found him kind. I never loved him. These were all truths that my mind was letting go to the wayside as my mind succumbed to tiredness. You always found his beauty attractive, and you wished you were together. You wished he noticed you. You wished he loved you too.
"Do you love me?" I slurred as he deposited me into the sheets, pulling them across my body.
"What do you want me to say?"
"That you love me." I chuckled to no one in particular as his hand trailed the side of my face. He was never one for physical affection, I reminded myself—this was not the boy I once knew.
"You need rest," he instructed, sitting on his chair, legs crossed.
"Are you not afraid? Of what lies beyond? He might not be what you're searching for." I spoke to my own fears, the JENOVA cells calling out and my mind grappling with dissonance.
"It doesn't matter. We were all born, and it's liberating to think it's for a greater purpose. Wouldn't you agree, little scientist?"
I fell asleep before I could answer, head collapsing further into the pillow, mouth agape. It didn't take long before I was dreaming. A little scientist in the making, standing next to a stage. I was so nervous, my heart pounding behind my eardrums. But, I was so convinced I needed to be present and bear witness to a rebirth—a woman now something greater than her meagre beginnings. I wanted to show my mother's spirit, now long returned to the Planet, that I had achieved something grand. Something haunted me, however. I feared she would reject this new being before her. A sham. A lost cause.
I adjusted my sleeves and sash, waiting for my name. Two words rang hollow in the auditorium: Helena Menninger. A few claps followed. I was so proud. I walked onto the stage, the lights blaring and camouflaging the sea of faces—except for one. He sat in the midst of the crowd; I was actually surprised I picked him out so quickly. He was there and he was studying. I shook hands, took a picture, and slipped off the stage, his eyes still on me. As I walked off the stage, I could see him in the corner of my eye, ready to pursue. I held onto my diploma close to my chest, my sash snapping as I ran to the parking lot. He was following closely behind.
"Helena," he called out, his voice dampened by the snow accumulating around us.
I refused to turn around. "Just please leave me alone."
"I think I deserve for you to look at me—at the very least."
"I don't have anything to say to you." I turned around, slit pupils dancing. I held my diploma close to my chest, sash blowing.
"So," he began, approaching me with care as not to spook his prey, "here we are."
"Don't look at me like I'm some kind of monster. You're no better, trust me." His judgments were clearly lain one afternoon in the office as I was packing up for the day. He came in, closing the door behind him so as to have a captive audience. He had heard of the civilian testing of SOLDIER treatments, this irked him to no end. But what disturbed him most was my presence in the labs, experimenting, proding and cutting. I listened, my body on fire and vibrating. I was the Big Bad—the villain of his story. I felt so ashamed. But that was just how things were now. We were here out of circumstances. I wish I could explain that, but my tongue became loose in my mouth, and I was so fearful of his reaction - to be rejected, again.
I turned away after a moment of silence, not willing to continue the conversation more than what was necessary. He reached for my arm, to what I thought was to capture and demean, but instead he pulled up my sleeve. "Out of guilt?" He pointed to tiny pinpricks lining my arm. I pulled backwards, which he was not prepared for, and I tumbled to the wet ground, the snow softening the blow. "Look," he instructed, pulling up his shirt. I shirked away, eyes downcast. "Look," he demanded again. Outlining his intercostals were slashes. A few puncture marks on his chest.
"Who did this?"
He smiled, a facial twitch that I recognized every time he returned to his cell after a treatment. "I did. It will heal, like everything else. I rarely can make myself bleed anymore."
I swallowed a dry lump, my tongue swollen and my stomach dropping beneath my pelvis. "I'm... I don't know what to say."
"I just want you to know, we are not so different, I would imagine." He sat beside me on the cold ground, pulling down my sleeves to hide our little secrets.
"I wish things were different."
"I would have to agree. A normal life?" He laughed contemptuously, his chin slightly turned upwards.
I reached for a shoulder that no longer existed. He was gone, and I was alone in the dark. I wished he had the opportunity to experience what I did. Would things have been differently? Would I be here? Would I have lost a friend?
"Welcome home," I could hear his voice in the distance.
I stood; snow turning to ash. The ash was sticking to my eyelids and hair; a burnt wood smell was lingering on my wet skin. "I am home." But the dissonance was strong. I wanted to let go of any barrier that lingered in the darkened corners of my mind, intently grasping onto any semblance of the child I once was: bright-eyed and with some concept of morality. Yes, I was home, but I refused to live there.
I woke, pulling the sheets off and extending the tether as long as it could go.
"What are you doing?" His patience was running thin.
"Why are you keeping me alive?" I felt my way around the room, the lights from the lamps around us offering little support.
"You need rest."
A dance into the table, a crash of a lamp, shards scattering on the floor. I picked up a small piece and threatened by holding it across my neck.
A snicker. "You won't do it. You're too weak."
I pushed the tip further into my flesh, but a dissonance filled my mind and enraptured my body—every cell was compelled to follow him. The blood dripping from my hand made the shard slip to the ground, or at least that's what I told myself. I wanted to so much be the person to sacrifice myself, a true martyr, but that was so unlike my persona. I was indeed weak, fragile, on the teetering edge of breaking. I fell to the floor, groveling for forgiveness. He took my hands in his, cupping them together. Then fingertips traced down my arms to my jaw, tilting my face upwards. "You are meant for something greater than dying in this shack. Soon you will see. You'll find a home in him."
I leaned into his touch, a crave so deep that a blush heated every neuron. I kissed his gloved palms as he pulled away, wishing for more. I was scared that I wanted more, but I knew it was easier to give in that to fight against it. He understood and drew me to my feet. Wordlessly, he joined our foreheads, gentle kisses lining my cheeks. I returned the favour, liberated from my starvation, and drew forward his fingertips onto the collar of my shirt. I was scared by desires that boiled under the surface for so long but seemed to blossom into something sinister. He said nothing as limbs tangled, and I tempted his lips onto mine. I felt so alone and yet so whole. Hands tracing liberated skin; sweat in the cool air. When it was all said, wordlessly and empty, I sat on the edge of the bed, gathering my clothes and placing them back where they belonged. He, in turn, returned his pauldrons onto his shoulders.
"I need to take a shower." I felt so ashamed by his touch and smell that lingered.
"Leave the door open." It was the first time I heard his voice for a period of time that I forgot how menacing his intonations were.
"Are you afraid I'll drown or something?"
"Just leave the door open." He released the lock around my ankle and followed me to the bathroom. I left the door open a crack, as mandated.
I turned the hot water on, steamed permeating the small room. The steam was eclipsing the mirror, but I could see it—my bare back and the spell that sprawled. It was oddly comforting to be able to see it without it giving me immense pain. It was no longer trying to kill me—ironic. I mulled over what it would be like to have skin not mauled by a stick-and-poke tattoo. My mother used to tell me stories of how I sat so calmly on her lap as my grandmother injected ink into my skin. Now, I had neither. Now, I was all that was left. I held a shard of glass to the skin, an extra shard I hid in my pocket, and carefully flicked at the skin. Blood trickled down my shoulder blades and leaked on my underwear. He wasn't going to get the tattoo—that much, I was sure. With what little will I had, I began chipping away at the skin around my flanks and at my shoulders. The skin lay in chunks on the floor, blood splattering the porcelain skin and on the tiled floors. I bit the tip of my tongue clean off as I suppressed my screams of horror as the grotesque sight devolved before me. My back was no longer recognizable—I was free.
I stumbled across the wet tiles, wet from the steam and blood congealing in the cracks. I slipped, coming face-to-face with a piece of flesh pulled from my side. I cried out, my mouth filled with blood, choking slightly. Sephiroth pushed the door, laughing at the scene. He held me by my wrist, lifting me clear off the ground. I screamed as my shoulder tore, skin pulling and blood gushing. I begged him to stop. He laughed again as he took me into his arms, air caught in his mouth and chest, my heartbeat locked in my shoulders melding with his. I begged for the pain to stop—I had made a grave mistake.
"I was being sarcastic when I said to pull off your skin, Helena. Know that this changes nothing, unfortunately for you."
"What... do you mean," I breathed, grappling with the straps across his chest for stability.
"The skin has nothing to do with the spell. Your body is enough." He explained, leading me to my bed, laying me on my stomach. His hand traced the missing flesh. "I'm thinking twice about healing you. Perhaps this should act as a warning."
"Please," my body twitched and trembled.
I could feel him smiling as he commanded the flesh to close, his body acting as Materia. I closed my eyes. "Kathelyn," I whispered, hoping that wherever she was she would never find me. Not like this.
A/N: Heading into ending territory! Would love to hear what you think after I've resurrected this beast from a LONG sleep. I'm having fun and I hope you are too.
Song: Piistol Star (Gravity Heals), Chevelle