Vortas 22, 2719 | Late Afternoon
Painted Ladies
Painted Ladies
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Fionn had seen Lars snap before, had seen a change come over him — lightning fast — as he shifted from something placid and familiar to, well… He’d seen him become homicidal and seen him turn on him full of hatred and distaste. Hell, he’d seen the apathy melt away to reveal something warm and amorous in the past and even that had been enough to freak him out in the past. It seemed that Lars was like a coiled spring, winding tighter and tighter and tighter until suddenly the pressure built to a point where it released and uncoiled violently in whatever direction was convenient at the time. What triggered the release wasn’t readily apparent but it had snapped more than once in the youth’s presence. If he’d been in his right senses, he might have wondered if that said something about the middle Madden himself.
Having deep and meaningful thoughts, and considering what might act on his roommate’s psyche weren’t something of which he wasn’t capable of doing when the change came over the Hessean.
The servant had been lying on the ground, gradually curling into the foetal position but as his companion began to snap, Fionn’s body was driven back until he hit the wall. He dragged himself into something of a sitting position as Lars rose, attempting to become one with the brick behind him because he recognised that it was only going to get worse. He had an instinct for knowing when a shitstorm was coming but only when he’d stuck himself squarely in its path. In all honesty, it was a talent.
The first use of ‘fucking’ startled him, blond head cracking against the wall behind him as he flinched, vision blurring momentarily for a reason other than the briny fluid that escaped his gaze. Dizzy, throbbing, a little nauseous. His mouth opened, round with a howl that remained voiceless, the teenager failing to make a sound because he couldn’t.
He wasn’t meant to make a sound.
“Ugh, are you crying again? Do you ever stop? What are you — a baby? Sweet fucking Lady, I don’t want to listen to it, you got it? Shut your clocking head, you fucking scrap!” Ayden had said, pressing Fionn’s face down into his pillow until he thought he’d smother, panicking, crying harder because he was only a child, he was only a baby! He was ten but he was too small for this! He just wanted to go home! It wasn’t his fault!
His teeth clamped down, digging painfully into his lips so that nothing would come out, not even a whimper as the memory hit him, vivid despite the years that had passed. Lars had told him to shut up, he didn’t want to hear all that self-pity, did he? He was like Ayden all those years ago after his gating, sick to death of just how much the middle Madden felt sorry for himself. If he’d just kept quiet, it would have been fine. Lars was angry with him too because he hadn’t been able to shut his fucking head this time either. Poor, poor Fionn, nobody loved him so he had to love everybody else or try to because if he gave them what he had, they’d have to give something back, right?
Right?
This was all his own fault. It was always his own damn fault.
It felt like the other man had read something within him about how he interacted with others. Did he love Jamie? No, he tried to say, but it was something croaked, choked, a weak protest. Did he love everybody? Something the same although this time he managed to shake his head, vigorous even though it made his head spin.
The contents of his skull were throbbing, a pulsing, a pounding. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that his eyes felt as if they were disintegrating, liquidising so that they could ooze out of his lacrimal ducts like all the tears.
Did he love Aurelie? Yes! No! He didn’t know! What was love? What was love?
Love hurt, didn’t it? The people he loved the most, or thought he loved, they hurt him, they always hurt him. Aurelie hadn’t made his heart feel as if it had shredded in his chest, she’d never hurt him physically even once.
Lars though, Lars could hurt him. The man knew just how to hurt him.
Hands dragged over his face, fingers finding his ears, clawing at the soft flesh as he fought the desire to block off that horrible onslaught of sound — aural agony.
There were no words. He couldn’t produce sound, couldn’t find his voice to protest, couldn’t string together his own scattered thoughts to feed them to his vocal cords. There was no defence that he could mount and he didn’t know that he wanted to do so. Everything he said was right! He’d been selfish and useless and so cruel and so thoughtless and-
You didn’t spend all your time with-
-and he’d just thrown Lars away, never tried to offer him any comfort, never tried to offer his condolences. The blond had just-
You wrote that letter, so many drafts so that-
-he’d suited himself. He always suited himself.
The youth had always been like this, there was something wrong with him. It was why he deserved every bit of pain that he brought upon himself. Everything had consequences and even after all these years, he hadn’t learned that lesson, not properly.
“It’s all your own fault! All your own damn fault! You did this to yourself!” his father had hissed, shaking his shoulder while his mother screamed at him, trying to drag her dazed young son away. He was a toy tugged between two loud and fighting children. Blood pumping from his forehead from where it had struck the dresser, half his face flaming and throbbing from the backhanded slap. Niamh screeching crying as cosmetics smeared wetly down her scrunched up face.
Yes, it was all his own fault. He’d done this, he’d made this, there was no one else to blame for the way the Hessean now lashed into him with his tongue. The man gouged out tracts in him with his words but it wasn’t difficult, not when it had been done before, furrows opening along his psyche with ease as familiar paths were worn anew. Everything the other said found a receptive home within him, the vein of his speech an old friend, even if many of the words were new, specific to this.
“Did you think that I loved you?” Ayden had sneered, his arm like an iron bar across the back of Fionn’s neck, his hot breath spilling into the boy’s ear while the boy struggled to breathe, smothering. ”Good Lady, who could love you?” Only a moment for the words to hit him and cut him to the core before the pain came, and muffled screaming began.
A whimper escaped him, the teenager frozen and yet on fire at the same time, air chilling his lungs as it came in desperate gasps even while he felt as if he couldn’t breathe.
Phrases like “Good bitch” and “Yes, just do as you’re told” floated through his brain, entangling with the new ones that his former roommate passed to him.
Yes, he was a bitch, he’d always been a good bitch. How many times had he called others that so that he could feel better about himself? It made him feel that he could look down and control others, give a taste of the same treatment that he’d received. How could he explain how much he envied them for their innocent complacency, the unsullied state of their obedience whereas his own had always been sordid and horrible? How could he explain that he had felt lesser than all of his passive peers so he’d tried to make himself feel better? There was no way he could explain that to Lars; he didn’t have the words or the brain power right now.
Of course, it had come back to bite him. Of course, the older man was here to remind him that every word that had ever come out of the young passive’s mouth in that regard had been a lie. So many lies to try to make himself feel better. So many lies where that hadn’t worked at all.
It was all his own fault, did he understand? He’d done this to himself, he’d asked for this.
His mouth moved, vocal cords strained. There was a sharp, grating sensation in his throat, the mechanism rusty after all the tears. He tried to speak but the sound didn’t work. He had to swallow, cough, try again.
“Y-Y-Yes, sir—Lars. Yes, Lars,” he whispered, barely audible as he cowered in his own memories, cringed as so many past verbal abuses came to mind and replayed, tangling with this moment.
“I… I’ll go… back. Wh-where I b-b-belong. I d-d-deserve it. Deserve it.”
Fingers pulled on his hair, feeling the stinging in his scalp. He released a sob, actually vocalised and almost felt physically sick in doing so. Too many tears. In time, he’d be able to move, be able to drag himself back to where his sister was with his swollen face and his inability to explain. That time wasn’t now.
“S-S-Sorry! I’m sorry! So sorry, always s-s-sorry but I m-mean it. So sorry,” he muttered, unable to say anything else as he got stuck in that rut of apology, remorse.
He really was sorry. He was always sorry because it was always his fault.
Always his own fault.
