Megan's Story
Aug. 22nd, 2006 11:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gryphons_quillSunset or so; orange light in the windows. I heard a footstep in the corridor, probably him, on his way to talk to me. Quick, then. I took the cheap blanket, wrapped it around my hand, used glamour to block the pain, and smashed the window over the bed. Before they made it through the door, before I realized I couldn't feel my hand, before anything else, I called for help. Loudly. With voice and mind and all the glamour I could.
The dog was barking. I started to clear the glass from around the edge of the window, even though there was no way I was going to fit through it. The door behind me opened and I turned, trying to look defiant. It was him, and the horrible smile was all over his face. He knew I couldn't get away from him, he knew no one would help me, he knew that even if they tried they couldn't get in here before he hurt me.
I saw all that in his eyes, and felt myself go through terror and into a cold, calm place beyond it. He expected me to cower; instead I ran at him, full of a calculating sort of rage, watching myself take each step. Watching my numb hand come up, still wrapped in a blanket, holding a large piece of glass. Watching the glass arc toward his horrible smile. Watching him jerk backward, watching my hand drive forward anyway, into the space just below where his smile had been.
I felt nothing at all when I buried the shard of glass in his throat, and less than nothing when I pulled it back out and watched the blood start to come. Everything stopped but the blood, coming through his fingers. The dog stopped barking, I stopped moving, I would have thought time itself had stopped but the blood was still coming and coming, not as fast as I would have imagined but much more steadily.
Then there was a loud noise behind me, and before I could turn to see, a pale shape was snarling and throwing itself at him. It hit him in the chest, knocked him down, snarled again. He choked but made no other sound. His feet kicked.
The dog. It had heard my call and snapped its chain, and there it was, smaller than I had thought; it had fit through the window. I looked at it, still dragging a foot or so of chain: a medium-sized mongrel, yellow-brown, with wiry fur like a terrier and a long, lean body. I saw lines of red coming up on its back, blood where the window cut it. I saw dozens of tiny details, every hair, the shadows of its ribs, but I didn't see its face. I didn't want to see its face, because then I'd have had to look at what it was doing. To his throat.
Which I wasn't looking at, but the blood was a pool, a dark pool turning into a river between the dog's feet, and I knew I had to leave. I thought I'm not here as hard as I could, and ran out the door, past frog-boy and skinny girl, up the stairs and out. I didn't look back, just ran until I realized I was free. Another dark alley, a wall to lean against. Free, invisible, safe.
I'm not here, I thought over and over again in my alley. You can't see me, you can't hear me, you have no idea I'm here. After a while I decided the whole alley shouldn't have been there. That took more effort but once I had a masking glamour in place that would hold up to anything but an army regiment trying to march through it, I could relax.
My invisible alley wasn't a nice place. It held a few cardboard boxes and several beer bottles, and it smelled like urine. I felt like I belonged there. I had a cheap blanket wrapped around my hand. I was holding a piece of glass as long as my hand. There was blood on the glass, and on the blanket, but none on me. That seemed strange. There had been so much blood.
The pain was seeping back into my hand. Using glamour to mask pain isn't really smart except in emergencies or with chronic, pointless pain, and it never lasts very long. Especially if I do it to myself. It's just really hard to lie to your own mind. I can make myself look like anything I want, but when I look at myself I can see reality as easily as glamour. Same with pain. As soon as I started thinking about my hand, it hurt.
It hurt a lot. I might have broken something. I'd hit the window with the side of my fist, not my knuckles, but it was still hot and swollen. It was throbbing, my head was throbbing, and I wanted to throw up.
Not from the pain, though. I could say that, but it would be a lie. The real reason I was shaking wasn't that I'd just escaped from some unknown horror, either. The waves of nausea weren't from my injuries.
I had killed a man.
I let myself think it, gingerly. I killed a man. I'd never killed anyone before. I didn't think I wanted to kill anyone ever again.
I could have pretended I hadn't meant to, that it had been the dog, that I hadn't meant for the dog to... to do what it did... but I'd stabbed him in the throat with a knife-shaped piece of glass. And then I'd taken the glass back out and watched him try to hold his blood in with his fingers. If I hadn't done that, if I had just stabbed him and run, he might have lived. Even after that he could have, maybe, if if hadn't been for the dog.
I didn't want to think about the dog.
I didn't think I was sorry the man was dead, even though I kept seeing the edge of the glass catch a flicker of light, go in, come out red. I kept seeing the hands go up, the blood start to leak through them. I didn't ever want to see that again—I didn't ever want to do that again—but I wasn't sorry he was dead.
A dog barked, some ways away. I heard a door slam shut.
The sound of the chain breaking, nothing at all like a door slam, echoed in my little alley. The sound of the dog hitting his chest, knocking him down. The snarling, the choking, the kicking feet. If there had been someone else here, if someone could have gotten inside my glamour, they'd probably have heard it too. The alley was full of the sounds of his death.
I knew they weren't real. It didn't help. Eventually they faded back into memory where they belong.
The sun finally went down all the way. In the dark I felt safer, felt like I could go home, clean up, figure out what to do. I could think about what this would all mean, decide who to talk to (if anyone). Home wasn't that far away; I wrapped the night around myself as hard as I could and went there.
The dog was barking. I started to clear the glass from around the edge of the window, even though there was no way I was going to fit through it. The door behind me opened and I turned, trying to look defiant. It was him, and the horrible smile was all over his face. He knew I couldn't get away from him, he knew no one would help me, he knew that even if they tried they couldn't get in here before he hurt me.
I saw all that in his eyes, and felt myself go through terror and into a cold, calm place beyond it. He expected me to cower; instead I ran at him, full of a calculating sort of rage, watching myself take each step. Watching my numb hand come up, still wrapped in a blanket, holding a large piece of glass. Watching the glass arc toward his horrible smile. Watching him jerk backward, watching my hand drive forward anyway, into the space just below where his smile had been.
I felt nothing at all when I buried the shard of glass in his throat, and less than nothing when I pulled it back out and watched the blood start to come. Everything stopped but the blood, coming through his fingers. The dog stopped barking, I stopped moving, I would have thought time itself had stopped but the blood was still coming and coming, not as fast as I would have imagined but much more steadily.
Then there was a loud noise behind me, and before I could turn to see, a pale shape was snarling and throwing itself at him. It hit him in the chest, knocked him down, snarled again. He choked but made no other sound. His feet kicked.
The dog. It had heard my call and snapped its chain, and there it was, smaller than I had thought; it had fit through the window. I looked at it, still dragging a foot or so of chain: a medium-sized mongrel, yellow-brown, with wiry fur like a terrier and a long, lean body. I saw lines of red coming up on its back, blood where the window cut it. I saw dozens of tiny details, every hair, the shadows of its ribs, but I didn't see its face. I didn't want to see its face, because then I'd have had to look at what it was doing. To his throat.
Which I wasn't looking at, but the blood was a pool, a dark pool turning into a river between the dog's feet, and I knew I had to leave. I thought I'm not here as hard as I could, and ran out the door, past frog-boy and skinny girl, up the stairs and out. I didn't look back, just ran until I realized I was free. Another dark alley, a wall to lean against. Free, invisible, safe.
I'm not here, I thought over and over again in my alley. You can't see me, you can't hear me, you have no idea I'm here. After a while I decided the whole alley shouldn't have been there. That took more effort but once I had a masking glamour in place that would hold up to anything but an army regiment trying to march through it, I could relax.
My invisible alley wasn't a nice place. It held a few cardboard boxes and several beer bottles, and it smelled like urine. I felt like I belonged there. I had a cheap blanket wrapped around my hand. I was holding a piece of glass as long as my hand. There was blood on the glass, and on the blanket, but none on me. That seemed strange. There had been so much blood.
The pain was seeping back into my hand. Using glamour to mask pain isn't really smart except in emergencies or with chronic, pointless pain, and it never lasts very long. Especially if I do it to myself. It's just really hard to lie to your own mind. I can make myself look like anything I want, but when I look at myself I can see reality as easily as glamour. Same with pain. As soon as I started thinking about my hand, it hurt.
It hurt a lot. I might have broken something. I'd hit the window with the side of my fist, not my knuckles, but it was still hot and swollen. It was throbbing, my head was throbbing, and I wanted to throw up.
Not from the pain, though. I could say that, but it would be a lie. The real reason I was shaking wasn't that I'd just escaped from some unknown horror, either. The waves of nausea weren't from my injuries.
I had killed a man.
I let myself think it, gingerly. I killed a man. I'd never killed anyone before. I didn't think I wanted to kill anyone ever again.
I could have pretended I hadn't meant to, that it had been the dog, that I hadn't meant for the dog to... to do what it did... but I'd stabbed him in the throat with a knife-shaped piece of glass. And then I'd taken the glass back out and watched him try to hold his blood in with his fingers. If I hadn't done that, if I had just stabbed him and run, he might have lived. Even after that he could have, maybe, if if hadn't been for the dog.
I didn't want to think about the dog.
I didn't think I was sorry the man was dead, even though I kept seeing the edge of the glass catch a flicker of light, go in, come out red. I kept seeing the hands go up, the blood start to leak through them. I didn't ever want to see that again—I didn't ever want to do that again—but I wasn't sorry he was dead.
A dog barked, some ways away. I heard a door slam shut.
The sound of the chain breaking, nothing at all like a door slam, echoed in my little alley. The sound of the dog hitting his chest, knocking him down. The snarling, the choking, the kicking feet. If there had been someone else here, if someone could have gotten inside my glamour, they'd probably have heard it too. The alley was full of the sounds of his death.
I knew they weren't real. It didn't help. Eventually they faded back into memory where they belong.
The sun finally went down all the way. In the dark I felt safer, felt like I could go home, clean up, figure out what to do. I could think about what this would all mean, decide who to talk to (if anyone). Home wasn't that far away; I wrapped the night around myself as hard as I could and went there.
