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For George. (debut)
Jul. 4th, 2011 10:17 amGeorge.
Christ, she could just kill him with her bare hands. Left on the sidewalk while he went traipsing off after Mitchell, again. Unsurprising, at this point. The anger… it was better than feeling guilty for what she’d put into motion. It had to be done, one way or another. It had to be, because she couldn’t stomach another bloody second sitting idly by while a murderer lived under their roof. And now, maybe he wasn’t a murderer after all? The things that could’ve been avoided with just an ounce of proper communication.
So, she’d made her bed and now she was lying in it, whatever happened. Police line across the bloody door, the kitchen in shambles and Nina alone in a quiet house, having just been reprimanded like a child, by the man she loved. Not exactly the greatest of all days, but it had been quite some time since they’d had one of those.
Wading through the scattered mess on the kitchen floor, a hand atop the growing swell of her belly – growing, growing, faster every day – she leaned over the sink, filling a glass under the taps and taking a sip. Hoping to calm that sick twist of nerves in her gut. There was nothing she hated more than feeling so out of control.
In that quiet, empty house, there were footsteps behind her, and it all went a bit pear-shaped, after that.
The disappointment… When his hand clamped over her mouth, that’s what struck her first. She’d had such high hopes. Hopes that even a monster could be reformed. Forgiven his sins. But Herrick was a monster she didn’t fully understand, and she may never know if he’d been planning this all along. She’d been kind to him, but she was a means to an end. A chess piece in Herrick’s game. Mitchell’s game.
She’d never believed that everything would come out wine and roses, for any of them ever again, but her baby. Oh God, her baby. That churning bit of life growing inside her had given her hope, hope for the two of them, but it had been foolish all along.
And when he let go, she slumped forward, but she stayed on her feet. She would not fall, she would not beg, and as he walked away, she struggled for breath, thinking only of the baby, and of George, and the fine mess they’d all made of things.
“No, you’re right. My quarrel is not with you,” he said, polite as ever, the bastard, flouncing off with the kitchen doors flapping behind him, and she had just enough time to choke back the tears, turn toward the sink to catch her breath now that she thought she was alone.
He was on her again, before she could fight. An oddly gentle hand on her shoulder, and a knife sliding into her gut. “But then people would say I’d gone soft.”
Always a means to an end…
Nina stumbled, gasping through a pain so searing—she hadn’t known pain could reach her like this, after the agony endured every full moon. But it was more than the pain. It was a betrayal. It was a truth she’d always known. That the moment George had scratched her, the moment he’d given her that curse, he’d inadvertently shortened her lifespan. He’d lit a fuse, and this was the inevitable explosion.
She stumbled, but the sink was no longer there to support her. She fell then, to her knees, an arm curled instinctively across her stomach, warm blood soaking through her shirt.
There was grass under her. A scatter of leaves, and she heaved in a breath, sitting back on her haunches, confused as the pain started to ebb away. Shock? Oh God, probably. She was going to bleed out in the kitchen, hallucinating a pissing jungle, and George… Oh God, George. This would kill him.
But she didn’t feel cold. She didn’t feel the life draining from her. It was warm, humid, and when she groped absently at the wound in her side, she felt a tear in her shirt, blood smearing her hands, but smooth, unmarked skin beneath.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she sighed, the words catching on a dry sob, and she sat, twigs in her hair, and waited until she had it in her to stand.
Christ, she could just kill him with her bare hands. Left on the sidewalk while he went traipsing off after Mitchell, again. Unsurprising, at this point. The anger… it was better than feeling guilty for what she’d put into motion. It had to be done, one way or another. It had to be, because she couldn’t stomach another bloody second sitting idly by while a murderer lived under their roof. And now, maybe he wasn’t a murderer after all? The things that could’ve been avoided with just an ounce of proper communication.
So, she’d made her bed and now she was lying in it, whatever happened. Police line across the bloody door, the kitchen in shambles and Nina alone in a quiet house, having just been reprimanded like a child, by the man she loved. Not exactly the greatest of all days, but it had been quite some time since they’d had one of those.
Wading through the scattered mess on the kitchen floor, a hand atop the growing swell of her belly – growing, growing, faster every day – she leaned over the sink, filling a glass under the taps and taking a sip. Hoping to calm that sick twist of nerves in her gut. There was nothing she hated more than feeling so out of control.
In that quiet, empty house, there were footsteps behind her, and it all went a bit pear-shaped, after that.
The disappointment… When his hand clamped over her mouth, that’s what struck her first. She’d had such high hopes. Hopes that even a monster could be reformed. Forgiven his sins. But Herrick was a monster she didn’t fully understand, and she may never know if he’d been planning this all along. She’d been kind to him, but she was a means to an end. A chess piece in Herrick’s game. Mitchell’s game.
She’d never believed that everything would come out wine and roses, for any of them ever again, but her baby. Oh God, her baby. That churning bit of life growing inside her had given her hope, hope for the two of them, but it had been foolish all along.
And when he let go, she slumped forward, but she stayed on her feet. She would not fall, she would not beg, and as he walked away, she struggled for breath, thinking only of the baby, and of George, and the fine mess they’d all made of things.
“No, you’re right. My quarrel is not with you,” he said, polite as ever, the bastard, flouncing off with the kitchen doors flapping behind him, and she had just enough time to choke back the tears, turn toward the sink to catch her breath now that she thought she was alone.
He was on her again, before she could fight. An oddly gentle hand on her shoulder, and a knife sliding into her gut. “But then people would say I’d gone soft.”
Always a means to an end…
Nina stumbled, gasping through a pain so searing—she hadn’t known pain could reach her like this, after the agony endured every full moon. But it was more than the pain. It was a betrayal. It was a truth she’d always known. That the moment George had scratched her, the moment he’d given her that curse, he’d inadvertently shortened her lifespan. He’d lit a fuse, and this was the inevitable explosion.
She stumbled, but the sink was no longer there to support her. She fell then, to her knees, an arm curled instinctively across her stomach, warm blood soaking through her shirt.
There was grass under her. A scatter of leaves, and she heaved in a breath, sitting back on her haunches, confused as the pain started to ebb away. Shock? Oh God, probably. She was going to bleed out in the kitchen, hallucinating a pissing jungle, and George… Oh God, George. This would kill him.
But she didn’t feel cold. She didn’t feel the life draining from her. It was warm, humid, and when she groped absently at the wound in her side, she felt a tear in her shirt, blood smearing her hands, but smooth, unmarked skin beneath.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she sighed, the words catching on a dry sob, and she sat, twigs in her hair, and waited until she had it in her to stand.
