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mintchocolateleaves · 7 years

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Pay No Mind (1/6)

Notes: Listen, I write a lot, okay? Welcome to the next tododeku oneshot thing I’ve come up with.

Summary: During a villain attack, Midoriya Izuku is hit by a quirk that leaves him stuck in the recesses of his own mind. It's up to Todoroki Shouto to enter, and find his way to the classmate he's come to rely on.

Todoroki Shouto blinks open his eyes to white.

It’s blinding, and light stabs against his eyes, his head reeling with a sharp throbbing. A headache, Shouto quickly realises, although it’s worse than that, pressure making it difficult to see without gritting his teeth together, grinding into bone as he tries to think.

He can’t think.

And that’s confusing in of itself, because usually, even when he’s in pain, he’s at least capable of thinking things over without wincing too much. Not a headache then, because they’re not this bad.

A migraine then.

“Todoroki,” Recovery girl says, and her voice is loud, too loud, as he glances towards her. He lets out a small groan as he shifts his head, squeezes his eyes shut, attempting to bring himself something resembling comfort. He voice is a little quieter when she adds, “yes, he’s awake but I don’t think he’ll be able to answer any questions right now.”

There’s some words, but it’s muffled, too far away to be heard without paying attention.

“Let him rest a while longer,” Recovery girl says. Footsteps crack against laminate flooring, until Shouto can feel the older woman’s presence beside him, a shift in the bright light burning his eyelids. “Todoroki, you’re in pain, can you tell me where?”

Shouto opens his eyes to look at her, winces, and tries to answer. He lets out a whimper, squeezes his eyes closed again, and tries to drown the world out with black.

“Okay,” the nurse says, “I’ll do a general check. Rest a little longer, alright?”

There’s a feeling of lips against his forehead, and within seconds, her quirk leaves his head lighter, his body lulling him back into sleep.

The next time Shouto wakes, his head is less cluttered.

He pushes himself up to a sitting position, looks around the room. There are several beds, most of them made, but two with patients beneath the covers. He can’t make out who they are though, they’re at the other end of UA’s infirmary.

It makes him wonder what exactly he’s done to find himself a patient here. The last time he’d been sat in a bed like this, he’d recently fought against the hero killer Stain, having established himself as a hand crusher…

Midoriya, he can imagine becoming a patient, but him? Without any recollection of getting harmed? Shouto bites the inside of his cheek and looks around.

Recovery girl isn’t on her computer, which usually sits in the middle of the infirmary, meaning he’ll have to wait for whatever verdict, or explanation she can give him. And knowing her rules, he’ll be skinned if he even tries to leave without her clearing him first.

So, Shouto sits, fixed to his bed and he surveys any damage he can.

He must have been pretty injured, because scabs line his left arm, the aftermath of burns being healed, but not completely. And his muscles ache an absurd amount, something that shows Recovery girl must have used her quirk to his body’s limit, leaving him exhausted.

Shouto glances at the burns, they’re dry, bright red around the edges, but he doesn’t really feel the pain. Meaning, they’re mostly healed, around the nerve endings anyway. Still, seeing them makes him feel nervous, and he lowers his arm, searching for something else to focus on.

He glances to his side, the small bedside table filling his vision. His phone’s on it, along with his keys – all things he realises were probably in his pockets when he’d been brought into the infirmary and changed into the blue hospital gown he’s currently swathed in. There’s also a paper note in it, the sides singed black.

Shouto picks his phone up – it’s dead – and then unfolds the note, trying to keep the ends from crumbling too much as he glances over it. The writing is his, an address scrawled in black across the page. He doesn’t recognise it, but with missing information in his head, he’s not really surprised that he doesn’t.

“You’re awake,” Recovery girl drags his attention back to the present. Shouto turns to face her, watching the nurse stride towards him. She offers him a smile, prescribed kindness that only she seems capable of handing out without seeming over the top. “It’s about time.”

Shouto watches as she moves one of the chairs by the side of his bed, moving it so she can face him when she sits.

When she’s comfortable, she places her hands in her lap and says, “what can you remember about the incident?”

Eyes widening, Shouto shakes his head, because if he hadn’t woken up in the infirmary he wouldn’t have known there’d even been an incident. He says, “I don’t remember anything.”

A rush of guilt races through him, sparks down his spinal cord, spreading outward as he admits it, because he should know. He glances down, sighs and mutters an apology. A good hero wouldn’t just forget how he’d gotten injured, he’d have remembered and figured out a way to avoid such a thing again.

“That’s alright,” Recovery girl says, and she nods her head. “You were brought into the infirmary with a serious head injury, I wasn’t expecting you to be able to recall much of what happened.”

The words offer the slightest relief, but not much. Instead, Shouto digs his nails into his palms.

“What did happen,” he asks.

“There was a villain attack,” Recovery girl says, and she crosses her arms. “It was just outside the Taito ward, and you got caught up in it, along with two of your classmates, Iida and Midoriya.”

Shouto feels helplessness and desperation run through him, as he turns. “Are they both okay?”

His gaze drifts past the nurse, to the two figures in hospital beds on the other side of the room, watching them breathe – he’d not thought it would be those two, and they’re still sleeping which obviously means they’re more injured and, and-

“You were the most injured,” Recovery girl says, “they’re both safe. Iida managed to get the help of heroes, before things could escalate. He sprained his ankle, but it’s already been healed. And Midoriya’s already been healed for the breaks he’s received, physically they’re both fine.”

Shouto exhales, shoulders loosening with his relief.

Then, he squints, turns back to the nurse. He narrows his eyes, trepidation filling him, “what do you mean physically?”

It’s simple really.

Iida, who’d gone in search for heroes, had been relatively unharmed, hadn’t been affected by any of the villain’s attacks.

Midoriya however, had been struck with a quirk partway through the fight, and had fallen unconscious. He hadn’t woken since.

“What do you mean Midoriya hasn’t woken since?” Shouto says, and he bites down too hard on the inside of his cheek that all he can taste is blood. “That’s not… He’ll wake up soon right, just let him get some rest-”

Recovery girl shakes her head, “it’s been six days.”

At that, Shouto balks.

Six days? But, but that’s not possible. Surely, they’re lying. Midoriya wouldn’t have just… fallen into a coma because of some villain’s, what kind of quirk even does that to a person?

“I-” Shouto takes a moment to think, comes short with nothing and finds himself cursing the villain’s he can’t remember fighting. “Why hasn’t he? Isn’t there any way to – what quirk – Will he be okay?”

He can’t settle on what he wants to say, each word springing to mind before he has the chance to fully say it. And with every second that follows, with Recovery girl’s expression so solemn, Shouto feels dread bloom in his stomach, a weed that overpowers any resemblance of hope he can feel.

“I don’t know the particulars,” the nurse says, although her expression says otherwise, “and the villains are currently still in custody, but it seems to be a mind-altering quirk that’s keeping him unconscious.”

It doesn’t help lessen his dread, and Shouto finds himself worrying, his gaze drawn to the bed Recovery girl has pointed out as Midoriya’s, the boy sleeping without any signs of awakening. Even the idea of the boy being unable to wake up again is sickening, let alone–

It’s a reality that Shouto doesn’t want to be a part of.

“Is there a way to wake him up?” He asks, desperate. There is a moment of hesitation as the nurse glances towards the other end of the infirmary, before she offers him another smile.

This one is not reassuring.

“We’ve got a quirk specialist coming in this afternoon,” she says, “we’ll see if she can reverse the quirk. Now, I want to test your memory and balance to make sure the hit to your head hasn’t left any lasting damage, alright?”

Shouto is meant to be resting when the specialist in psychological quirks and their effects enters the infirmary, but he’s not. He remains rooted in his bed, awake enough to listen to the conversation from the other end of the room, but with too little energy to insist he listen in.

“Oh,” the specialist says, her voice low and difficult to hear without straining his ears, “this is quite the predicament.”

“Yes,” Recovery girl responds.

“Let me just take a look-” there’s a pause, and seconds draw out into minutes of silence. “It’s as I thought, his mind is still very much so active, but he’s unable to wake up. Right now, he’s trapped in his unconscious.”

Shouto tries not to think too much over the premise, and fails. Stuck within his unconscious, among memories and desires, conflicts that Midoriya must be fighting against… being stuck without an escape from every thought…

“Is there any way to wake him up,” Recovery girl asks.

“It’s possible in cases like this,” the specialist says, “but most of the time, it’s dependent on the patient. You can have someone find them in their unconscious, but essentially, the patient won’t wake unless they break through it themselves.”

Shouto shrugs his blankets off him, plants his feet onto the floor and pushes himself up. He sways on his feet, grabs the rail at the end of the bed until he can regain his balance. Exhaustion seeps into his bones, makes it difficult to think things over.

“It shouldn’t take very long to find him in his unconscious,” the specialist continues, “the problem will be gaining his trust so that he’ll realise I’m telling the truth about him waking up.”

Shouto pushes himself forward now, paces towards the end of the infirmary, to where Midoriya’s bed is located.

“Let me do it,” Shouto says, and his voice is steeled, determined to get what he wants. Both adults turn to face him, both wearing various expressions of shock. “If it’s a problem of trust, then let me go in, Midoriya trusts me.”

The specialist contemplates it, but Recovery girl glowers instead.

“Absolutely not,” the nurse says.

“It would raise the probability of awakening,” the specialist counters, “but, you’d be putting yourself in danger if you were to do so, you’d be stuck in his head until the patient wakes up. Unlike me, who can simply come and go from his mind.”

“I don’t care,” Shouto says, and he forces himself not to sway on his feet again, not to let any signs of weakness spread across his body. “Midoriya’s helped me before, and I know he’d do the same now, so… let me help him.”

“I’m not putting another student at risk,” Recovery girl says. Shouto stares her down, waits to see if she’ll back down – she’s treated too many heroes to be intimidated by him. “Absolutely not.”

“Tell me honestly,” Shouto says, glancing at the specialist and ignoring Recovery girl’s refusal, “since Midoriya trusts me, would that make his odds of waking up higher?”

He receives a nod. “The rate of success goes from 35%, to roughly 60%, but there’s a 40% chance that neither of you will wake up.”

“I’ll do it.” Shouto says, and take a step forwards. He glances down at Midoriya’s sleeping form, grits his teeth at the idea of this being permanent, and shakes his head. “I don’t care if it’s risky, or if you disapprove, I still want to do it.”

Recovery girl heaves out a sigh. She says, “I can’t say yes, not if it means risking your life.”

“But you can leave long enough for us to do it without your consent.” Shouto says, and the nurse scowls at the thought. “Midoriya saves everyone without thinking about himself, and now you’re denying me a chance to repay that?”

“Your life-”

“Is only worth what it is, because he helped me.” Shouto’s mind flashes back to Endeavour, the man’s legacy that he’s thrown behind instead of fretting over. To his mother and how he’d finally met her again, purely because Midoriya had pushed him far enough.

Recovery girl scowls. She says, “I’m not condoning this.” Shouto opens his mouth to argue, but she stops him by continuing, “but there’s nothing I’d be able to do if you were to do so while I was making myself a coffee.”

Shouto lets out a sigh of relief, glances towards the specialist. He says, “will you…?”

She nods, although she too, looks nervous.

“Listen,” she says, “it’ll be dangerous, so don’t let your guard down. But more importantly, don’t use your quirk. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, you are going into his mind, and you can’t damage it.”

Shouto nods.

And Recovery girl, heaving out a sigh, excuses herself to go and make coffee.

The first thing Shouto sees upon entering Midoriya’s mind, is fire.

Glass has been blown out of buildings, smoke rising from them all – in the middle of the carnage is a villain Shouto remembers seeing from the news back in middle school, a sludge monster.

He remembers how All-Might had beaten it with a single punch, how Endeavour had seethed, his anger simmering before reaching its boiling point.

Shouto had been glad for his ice powers then, because he’d managed to cool his arm down quick enough to avoid any burns the man had ‘unintentionally’ given during their following training session.

“But why is Midoriya thinking about this?” Shouto wonders, glances around. There are heroes around, although he can’t see All-Might yet. And there’s a crowd, except they’re transparent, more like ghosts than people.

And there… at the back is Midoriya, stood watching with wide eyes.

It takes a few seconds to realise that this isn’t the Midoriya he knows, but part of the scene, part of this memory. Shouto races towards him anyway, glances at him with tension coiled around his bones.

“Midoriya.” He says, wondering if he can get him to snap out, of whether he’ll need to search further for the boy, “Midori-”

“Kacchan.” His classmate doesn’t even see him, pales instead in horror as he pushes past ghosts, attempting to reach the front. “No.”

Shouto turns, looks towards the villain. He remembers the sludge monster had taken someone hostage, but since he’d been a middle schooler, the news hadn’t been able to declare who, as per the privacy laws for minors. Now that he’s looking however, the hostage is very much so, Bakugou Katsuki.

And Midoriya is terrified by this fact.

“Someone help him,” Midoriya mutters, and he takes a step forward, raises a hand as if to help Bakugou. “Why isn’t anyone helping him?”

Shouto turns, glances around the crowd for any sight of All-Might, and doesn’t find him. But… but this is Midoriya, Shouto thinks. Why isn’t he rushing in to help, it’s something the boy has done several times since already this year.

“Why aren’t you trying to save him?” Shouto asks. This version of Midoriya doesn’t react to his words, and Shouto realises that it must be because he doesn’t fit into the memory, isn’t part of the scene. He’s simply an onlooker. “You’re strong enough to help him if you tried.”

Midoriya shrinks in on himself, “All-Might was right, I can’t be a hero.”

Shouto feels his eyes widen. All-Might said… something like that? But… Midoriya has always been the number one hero’s favourite student, something he’d tried to hide but hadn’t ever fully been able to keep from everyone’s mind.

“I’m just a wannabe,” Midoriya whispers, “I won’t be able to save anyone.”

The other boy flickers, much like the flames around him and within a blink Midoriya is at the back of the crowd again. Shouto watches silently, as the other boy spots the villain, notices Bakugou in it’s clutches.

“Kacchan,” Midoriya pushes through the crowd again, “no.”

[Next]

#Once again I'm gonna limit myself to a 25k max wc for this fic because I'm not subjecting myself to anymore pain than that #Midoriya Izuku #Todoroki Shouto #tododeku #Recovery Girl #Bakugo Katsuki #Iida Tenya #All-Might #Boku no Hero Academia #My Hero Academia #bnha #Fic: Pay no Mind #mywriting

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sam-or-whatever · 7 years

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Morals/Matricide | Self-Para

Shrieks filled the air. Tragedy had struck, and there was no way around that. While the areas of Lanford that had once seen lush, lively and livid with bustling people and the sheer vibrancy of life in pseudo-metropolis weren’t entirely vacated, silence hung over them as a court of viewers spectating a public execution. The air was dead. It beckoned for the hawking of a crow, the drop of a pin, anything to break the lack of noise that seemed so brittle in the suburban streets that it could crack should anyone open a window; and yet, it didn’t.

But the world around Sam was not silent. White noise screamed around her, hisses and hazes screeching in her ears, unintelligible mumbles and yells from strangers not in her line of sight. There were bodies-- people, perhaps. At least, vague outlines of them. Faces and limbs blurred, smeared across her peripherals and melting into each other, a bizarre Dali or Ernst painting. None of them mattered. No one mattered.

Heels clacked along the sidewalk outside of the hospital, ankles wearing down. She’d ran from the park, from the tent, from the fire that grew exponentially like a cancer on the tarp, stands and apparent souls that it consumed. The park wasn’t too far from the hospital, nor from her own apartment; she could’ve very well run home instead, sat there like a coward in her shelter until whatever horrendous apocalypse outside had passed over and was nothing more than a news headline in the morning that would soon be forgotten about as more global politics consumed every outlet.

But she had to go. Had to. There was no other option but to.

She’d seen the firemen and paramedics arrive, seen what few straggler cops come by as if there was any other prime objective in the entire city to tend to (Perhaps a drug bust in North End seemed more important). And soon, a swarm of them had arrived, too late in time for her own comfort. She saw stretchers, people carried out, limping, crawling, emerging from smoke like a macabre rebirth. Perhaps that’s when they were taken, when they’d managed to get out. Someone was doing their job.

She’d made her way home, sat on the front stoop to the apartment for far too long, lost in the thought, perhaps in shock, of what would happen to all those back at the masquerade. She knew someone had died. Well, perhaps not knew-- but the likelihood of no one losing their life in the disaster seemed unlikely.

It was almost dawn when the phone call reached her. Details scarce, she was drawn to the hospital in concern of her “family”.

Automatic doors slid open, practically at her command even if it was merely a mundane electronic routine for them, and heels clicked on linoleum rather than cement.

The emergency room wasn’t anything unexpected.

Every seat occupied, standing room only. Some wept. Some were silent. Unintelligible noisiness from behind the scenes, the medical wards themselves, leaked out into the space, more white noise to cut through the bleak. Not all of them were there because of the fire; it hadn’t injured the entire town. Of course the world still turned and people still did stupid things or were shot or got into car crashes when fires broke out. These people still would come here. But yet again, they didn’t matter.

“Did Andrew Blackwood check in here today?” Manicured hands slammed down on the desk before her. The woman on the other side, some short, Lisa Loeb-looking type with uber-chapped lips stared up in near awe.

“Ma’am, what’s your name?”

“Samantha Blackwood, now answer the goddamn question.”

“Do you bear any relation to An--”

“Just answer the fucking question, you useless cunt.”

“Please don’t use that tone with me, miss, I’m trying to help you.” She rapidly tapped away on the computer, perhaps searching databases for something that should’ve been a simple yes or no question.

“A state senator checks into an emergency room in the wake of a town-wide disaster, and you’re telling me you can’t fucking remember if you saw him or not? Is he here, yes or fucking no?”

In the corner of her eye, she saw the door to the back swing open as an orderly called someone else to come in.

“There is indeed a Blackwood checked into the ICU right now, bu--”

“Thanks.”

She bolted through the open door, nearly knocking the orderly in her bizarrely Lisa Frank scrubs over. Squeaks on the tiles, the taffeta and tulle of her dress flying behind her in lieu of smoke or dust from wheels.

“MISS--!”

Whatever the receptionist had to say was gone behind her, lost to the sound of crying patients, beeping hospital equipment and the ringing in Sam’s head that grew, tinnitus off of its tracks, perhaps an oncoming migraine.

Andrew. Where was Andrew?

Fuck Eliza.

It really didn’t matter to her where her mother was. She knew they both were in the tent when the fire broke out. Far from the entrance, at that. Perhaps they had been trapped in for a while. Perhaps they both managed to escape. Both Eliza and Andrew were too paranoid and high-strung for their own good to brush off any remote injuries; Eliza had checked herself into the emergency room for being pricked with a thorn from a rose her husband had given her. But if she had gone up in flames like the saganaki she enjoyed once a month, it would all be for the better. As long as Andrew was alive. He mattered. At least a little bit.

White. Everywhere around her was white. White floors, white walls, white curtains, oppressive white fluorescent lighting. Perhaps she stood out in grey, but the dress itself may have been what stood out moreso than the color.

Eyes darted around, wildly, for any signs of him-- Eliza’s dress would stand out if she were to see it anywhere. A hideous, voluminous ensemble of deep yellow-orange would perhaps now be singed to black. But Andrew’s matching suit would stand out just as well.

Through cracks at the edges of curtains, nothing was to be seen.

“The ICU” the Loeb had said, and an elevator trip and another quarrel with a receptionist, Sam found herself outside the room wherever one of her parents rested.

“Please tell me it’s Andrew,” she grumbled to the accompanying nurse, who held her elbow gingerly; perhaps it was for comfort, perhaps it was for control. Sam knew she could burst into a tirade and a tantrum at any moment. Security could be called if she got out of control. But as she stood, fingers prying at each other as if begging to dig under her acrylics, she was still.

“Miss, we--”

“Save it.”

“But you--”

“Just stop fucking talking. Please.”

There was a beat. A pause.

She looked upwards, up at the lengthy lights that ran across the ceiling like highway lane stripes, bearing down on the hallway below like a judgmental god. Then down at her shoes again, tips scuffed from her journey, rhinestones still perfectly in place.

She should go in. She knew she should. And so, so she glanced-- a simple lean forward and glance to the left to peer into the room. The yellow was striking; yet, she couldn’t make out what it was, the suit or the dress, from behind the curtain. It was clear that the fabric wasn’t really on its wearer, so much as draped on some coat rack or chair right behind the curtain that obstructed her view of the sole resident of the room. The sound of a breathing machine and the beeping of a heartbeat were the only sounds inside.

She pulled back, turning to the nurse.

“Where’s the other one? Whoever it is?”

The nurse bit her lip, her own hands fidgeting near her waist in a way not unlike what Sam’s own were doing.

“Miss, that’s what I was trying to tell you.”

Sam’s eyebrow raised briefly, too shaky to be as intimidating as she would’ve preferred.

“Only one of them has made it this far.”

“‘This far’?” Her voice nearly cracked.

“They both were rushed in together, and... Perhaps we should sit down.”

“No.”

“Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, miss?”

“Stop saying ‘Miss’ as if I’m some irrelevant. You know our goddamn name. Now call me Sam or Miss Blackwood or something.”

“Alright, well, Samantha, do you u--”

“I said Sam, you absolute twit. You’re so fucking incompetent.”

“Sam, do you understand what I’m trying to get across to you?”

“One of them is dead.”

“I...”

“Is that not what you’re saying?” She stared into the girl’s eyes, her own red and sore, yet tears did not well up quite yet. She was not about to cry in front of a stranger. Enough people cried in hospitals. It was too cliché. She would not allow it.

“It... is... Indeed.”

“Then thank you. I don’t think your useless services will be required much further here.”

“You’d like me to leave?” The girl bit her lip.

“Yes, you stupid bitch, go back to your post or changing bedpans or whatever it is you do.”

“Alright... I’ll... send the doctor in soon.”

“Don’t fucking bother. I don’t need to know about any prognosis or whatever. If a doctor was that important to the situation, he’d be the one here talking to me about a dead parent, not you and your fresh-out-of-med-school, doe-eyed ineptitude.”

She stood there for another moment, almost in awe, unable to move. Maybe out of fear, or uncertainty of what to do, but as Sam’s eyes widened, her lips pressed into a firm line, the girl finally turned on her slippered heels and bolted back to her station.

Fists gripping at handfuls of fabric at her thighs, it was a miracle it didn’t shred under the sharpness of her nails. Knuckles turned white, begging to shred the rice paper skin over top.

She had to go inside.

She had to know who it was.

Why wouldn’t you just fucking ask?

It was stupid. Stupid to need to see for herself, to have the knowledge be tangible rather than verbal, to see for herself which parent was remaining.

Perhaps then she would know whether to mourn or not.

Please be Andrew.

She would never say it out loud.

Her own relationship with him was well beyond “estranged”; as long as he still fed into her material desires and kept her connected to his bank account, she could say they were still on good terms. He was a man of morals. The black sheep in his family for the mere fact that he was democratic-- and made his way into the Senate as such-- when it was a miracle his family could stand upright considering how far they all leaned to the right. But she never was close to him. They never shared intimate moments. She had safely told that therapist whose name escaped her almost a year ago that both he and Eliza failed as parents in that regard. She would have no reason to feel upset at his passing.

And yet, the fact that he wasn’t an insufferable force of nature of condescension, patronizing, self-indulging, high-strung shrieking that Eliza was. Andrew not being a Passive Aggressive Queen of the Universe himself made him instantly worthy of a tear or two.

A sigh and a grunt later, she turned into the room, the view of its resident still hidden.

“What could be behind curtain number one...” she mumbled.

The air hung heavy with silence. The tap of her heel-- always at the back of her mind throughout the day-- nearly matched the rhythmic pulse of the heart monitor, and slower still, the breathing machine gasped in and out every couple seconds.

The heap of fabric visible under the curtain made itself more visible-- yellow faded into black and grey at parts that had been singed, burnt into nothingness. Which garment it was still wasn’t clear; only bits were seen sweeping the floor.

With one more step, she rounded the curtain, eyes still fixated on the clothes before the person in the bed, and her answer became obvious.

The dress was in shambles, rags, tattered and torn, almost all of it but what touched the ground wrinkled and burned into blackness. It’s volume depleted, shape nonexistent. Thousands of dollars wasted.

Her breath held.

The breathing machine continued, almost in lieu of her own inhalation.

Eliza laid in the bed, nearly unrecognizable. A thin film of what might as well have been saran wrap isolated all but her face from the rest of the world. She was covered in black; green-tinged darkness that crinkled and peeled at random places. But by far the most shocking bit were the cuts-- nearly gridlike slices in her flesh that left her seared flesh in pieces, giant planes with deep rivers of pink in between them. From Sam’s own view, it seemed as if nothing of her hadn’t been consumed by the flames. It seemed almost impossible that she wasn’t already dead. Wires and IVs branched off from each arm, from random places on her body, tracking her vitals.

And then her face. Obstructed by the tube shoved down her throat, it, too, had a majority of it covered in the swamp-green blackness of the burn that everything else was. It swelled, gigantic, her natural features, one Sam could identify as pretty and inherited by herself had they not been ruined by association with Eliza’s personality, were gone amidst the destruction. Only two locks of her bleached hair remained, the rest, shriveled to nothing or gone altogether.

Gone was Eliza’s outer armor of beauty. Her vanity had been one thing that she made clear in previous days as important to her, always pulling out her compact to recheck herself in the middle of conversations or rantings at Sam. The woman that laid on the bed, breathed in peace, was hideous. An ogre. The monstrosity of who she was was finally visible on the outside for the world to see, but for Sam, it was only a culmination that she’d been waiting every day of her life to see.

“Of course it’s you.”

Her hands relaxed, rested limp at her side.

She stood at the end of the bed, staring at the creature before her, its chest rising and lowering in sync with the machine to its left.

A knock at the door broke what could’ve been serenity.

“You’re not allowed to be in here.” The man at the door’s white coat and clipboard announced what he was before he even breathed it out the next words. “I’m Dr. Guthrie... And you would be?”

“This woman’s daughter.” Her body remained still, only her head turning to look at him with her watery eyes. Tears were forming, indeed, but not because of Eliza. Or, perhaps it was because of them-- because it was her who laid in the bed with a chance of survival and not her husband. “You should know. Aren’t you the clown that called me?”

“You still shouldn’t be in here, Ms. Blackwood.”

“Are you going to not allow me to see her? Am I in the way of someone’s work?”

“Well--”

“Because as far as I can see, you’ve left her here. ICU, my ass. Are there more critical patients that everyone’s run off to take care of? Is she just supposed to stay here like a victim of the Salem witch trials while you lot run around filming scenes for Grey’s Anatomy?”

“Ms. Blackwood, I--”

“I really don’t fucking care.”

“I just want you to know that we’ve done all we can at the moment.”

“I said I don’t fucking care, but where does that leave her?”

He paused, biting his lip. His eyes bounced, from daughter to mother and back again.

“She hasn’t been breathing on her own. She's scheduled to go into surgery again soon for debridement of the outer layers of skin in the morning.”

“It is the morning.”

“Around ten.”

“And you think she’ll survive?”

He paused again. And before he opened his mouth to speak, she spoke over him--

“You don’t have to worry about sparing my feelings. Bedside manner is bullshit. I just want to know what to expect.”

“Full recovery does not seem likely.”

“So, she’d be like this for the rest of her life?”

“Internally, she’s mostly in shape-- her breathing is the main concern; she hasn’t been conscious since she was brought in, and we’re not sure if that could change.”

“Were you also the one that treated my father?”

“I meant to extend my condolences on that part.”

“You could’ve called earlier, you know.”

“We--”

“Frankly, I don’t care. Was he dead on arrival?”

He silenced himself again.

“Listen, Dr. Quack, are you, like, Nell, or something? You have the communication skills of a recluse. What’s the matter with you?”

“Ms. Blackw--”

“Just leave me with her for a moment. Please.”

He nodded, before scurrying off, not unlike the nurse. He paused at the door:

“You should really be wearing a mask and a gown.”

He shut the door behind himself.

She turned her head again, facing the beast on the bed.

And after a moment, she walked, moving to the side to seat herself in the only other chair in the space not occupied by a destroyed piece of couture.

She leaned in, staring at the devastation on Eliza’s body even closer-- cracks, fissures, hints of muscle visible in the valleys between skin continents, surprisingly such little blood visible. Perhaps it wasn’t safe to be around her-- exposing her to external contamination and whatnot. But then again, the sheet that covered her seemed to have that part taken care of.

“You’re really fucking ugly, you know that, mom?”

She squinted her eyes, staring at the Halloween mask of a face that rested on the pillow. Her eyelashes were missing, yet her lids seemed like the only part of her face that remained intact.

“You used to tell me that. I know.”

Eliza’s lips seemed stretched, plastic surgery gone wrong.

“I was never good-looking enough for you. But we looked kinda the same before this, no? I have your cheekbones. Your nose. Your smile. Your lips. Dad’s eyes, I suppose, but your face was mine. Do you think that was part of it? That you thought you, yourself, were never as beautiful as dad said you were, or how you told yourself in every mirror that you were the most gorgeous woman in the world? Did you think that was a lie? And rather than tell it to your own face, you told it to mine, to try and watch me tumble into insecurity, huh?”

She smiled. The thought that Eliza’s current face could no longer do that was almost comforting.

“You failed. Like much of your parenting, you failed that. I never thought I was ugly. And until the day I’m as hideous of a person as you were-- or, are, if you could look yourself in the mirror right now-- I will never think that.”

She leaned forward again, scooting the chair even closer, practically breathing in the unconscious woman’s ear.

“But your personality was always the ugliest part. Shrill. Screaming. Demeaning. You set the standard for horrible mothers in the world. For bitches in every TV show. Set an example of whatever paths should not be followed. You know, you mocked Jodi for not vaccinating her kids-- and yet she still tries to love them. You couldn’t love me. Or at least, you refused to, and I suppose I’ll never get to understand that. At least not now, will I? You can’t wake up and answer me-- and even if you were awake, you wouldn’t tell me. Is that because there’s no reason? There’s no reason for you not to love and support me? No reason for you to treat me as if I was the bane of your existence and the source of every anxiety and struggle you faced?

“You didn’t face any struggles, you bitch. The rich do not face more issues than the poor just because you have too much cash to count. You can waste it all on valium and vodka, but that doesn’t mean you’ll ever have to need any of it. You grew up wealthy, you married wealthy, you’re straight and white, and your parents didn’t beat you like you always said I should be lucky you didn’t do to me. You slapped. You struck. You didn’t beat me unconscious or bruise me, but you laid one too many hands on me whenever you lost your temper because you don’t know how to handle a little bit of sass.

“You don’t know how to handle anything, actually, when I think about it. You couldn’t handle being single, so you found the richest, handsomest available guy in New York to call your own. You couldn’t handle responsibility about birth control, apparently, or else I wouldn’t be here. And you couldn’t handle the idea of an abortion because you still went through with a child it’s clear you never wanted. You couldn’t handle a baby, you couldn’t handle a toddler, you couldn’t handle a pre-teen, you couldn’t handle a teen, you couldn’t handle an adult. You could never manage self-sufficiency, either; living off of your own parents’ money like you’ve given me so much fucking flack for my entire life, then soon found yourself clinging to your husband and claiming his networth for your own. The only thing I know you can handle is your drinks and drugs. At least that’s one thing we kinda have in common.

“You were the source of every issue I’ve had in my life. I was not good enough. I wasn’t worthy of your affection. I couldn’t have my birthdays about me, they had to be about you and your clique of cunt friends who just love to compare their husband’s dick sizes and whatever Ralph Lauren purchases you’ve made. Straight A’s still meant I wasn’t smart enough for you, even my taste in clothes wasn’t good enough for you-- newsflash, bitch, Balmain and Balenciaga will always trounce a Chanel suit when it’s all you wear, and your Gucci staples are the biggest fashion faux pas I’ve seen since the 2012 Met Gala.”

She laughed. Perhaps she was delving too much into joke territory. If only Eliza could hear this. A glance around-- there weren’t any cameras. No one could hear this. Or see this. It was almost unfortunate there wasn’t an audience. And almost unfortunate Eliza wasn’t awake to turn the scene into a full-on production.

“I know, I know-- I didn’t make it easy for you. I didn’t take orders. I didn’t take rudeness easily. Flippancy, facetiousness, bitching back and forth for hours, it all something I could’ve avoided. But what do you want from me? What did you want from me? To apologize for having a personality? To just let you steamroll me and for me to just lay there like a ragdoll on autopilot to make you satisfied when you were never going to really care if I did well?

“I did do well-- I’m doing well. I’ve done more than you ever have in your entire, insufferable life. No, I didn’t marry rich, but I could if I tried. No, I don’t have lunch with the Romneys and attend the 2017 inauguration-- neither of which I’d be proud of, anyway-- but I have things you don’t. I have a place I chose for myself without making someone else miserable in the process. I have a job that I’m happy with. Yes, your sister-in-law got it for me, but I still have it. I have a friend. You’ve met him, you know. His name is Jude. No, he’s not a cop. No, he’s not some other fashion maven. He’s a rocker. I think he’s broke. But no, he’s not leeching off of me like you would assume, either. But he’s one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met, and our times together are not spent comparing our superficial struggles and trying to outdo each other in the same field, because that’s not what it’s about. But I don’t expect you to understand that. I don’t know what you value. Money, maybe, but it flies out of your hand far more often than it does mine, so maybe you don’t value anything.

“And that’s totally fine, you know. It’s totally okay to not have standards, rules for yourself, things to have sacred. It’s fine. I just try not to make the world around me worse for it. No, I’m not a nice person a lot of the time, but I’m not actively trying to ruin people’s life. I don’t have someone that I brought into this world and have responsibility over and fuck them over at every chance I get because I like to see little children cry-- well, that’s a lie, I do, hence me stealing candy from a baby on the boardwalk last summer, so I guess that makes me a hypocrite, but you are a black hole, Eliza. You are the quintessence of virility, of the reason people think the upper class is out of control, you are the source of all evil in the household that I grew up in, and you have not suffered one day in your life because of a family of cunts bearing down on you.

“Well, you know what, that might be unfair of me to say. Maybe you did. Maybe you went through the same things I did. Maybe your mother really was an uber cunt-- you never let me see it. But if I was you, I wouldn’t bring that full circle. I would not choose to make my child miserable because the same was done to me. Like I said, I know I’m not a nice person a lot of the time. Maybe I’m net-evil at that because I say evil things all the time and get a kick out of being a casual villain, but I try to do good things at times. I try to be nice. I have friends for that-- especially Jude. You don’t. You may have experienced whatever hells the Rheiders put you through, but you just became one of their numbers in the process. The Blackwoods are not much better.

“And in fact, that’s why I wish dad was where you are right now. At least having some chance of survival. Not being wiped out of this world without a fighting shot. He was like me. He was a victim of at least some goodness in a family full of nothing but horror. His brothers are pigs. His parents are garbage. They’re your crowd. Maybe you thought he was like them; maybe that’s why you married him. But he was a good fucking man, you know? That’s why he kept taking care of me. That’s why he didn’t cut me off despite all your horrendous attempts at ruining my life even when I wasn’t in it anymore. You didn’t fucking care about the money I was spending. You wouldn’t have even known. Yeah, I know I spend as much money in a month as the average American household does in a year, but is that not what you do weekly? Context is the key here, and you wouldn’t have felt the impact I left on that bank account if you weren’t obsessively checking it to find reasons to do me in.”

She laughed again, finally leaning back in the chair.

“Funny, isn’t it? How you always called me a leech? A dependent. Yeah. I’m a dependent. I depended on you and-- fuck it, just Andrew’s money. And here you are, your life hanging on by a thread, dependent on machinery and the works of other people to keep you from slipping away.”

She glanced at the machine-- an series of thick tubes that somehow funneled to one that slipped into her mouth, keeping her lungs inflated. She stood up, moving over to it, eyes scanning whatever nonsense floated by on a screen about how many breaths she took in a minute. It didn’t mean anything to her. It just meant Eliza was alive.

All that stood between Sam and salvation was this machine.

She turned back to her mother.

“I think it’s also even funnier that you burned. You’ll burn again, you know. You were so concerned with God. A casual Christian, so perhaps not that concerned, but you did tell me I was going to hell once or twice. But I guarantee you, if I’m there, you’ll be several circles deeper than I am. Or did you not read Dante’s Inferno? Maybe you weren’t that interested. Or maybe you just weren’t that intellectual. I never saw you read anything.”

She bent down by the machine, tracing the wires, the tubes-- finding where it plugged itself into the wall. The source.

She glanced back up at Eliza-- restful, peaceful, far too content since she wasn’t being tormented by fire. It was all so undeserving.

She stayed down fingers resting on the plug at the socket.

Could she do this?

It felt too right. There wasn’t a shakiness in her hands. There wasn’t the nervousness that one would assume would come. The cable called to her, like the knife from months ago that she dragged across her wrist, told her this was the thing to do.

“I wished death upon you many nights, you know. Wished so many times you were just out of my life. And even when I was finally living alone-- four years ago, can you believe it?-- that wasn’t good enough, because I still had to see you from time to time. I wished you would get into a crash. Perhaps someone would try to assassinate dad, and hit you instead. Or that we lived in 18th century France and you were guillotined. That’d be entertaining. And it seems... I may have finally gotten my wish.”

She yanked the cord.

The hissing of the breathing machine stopped.

All that filled the room was the beep of Eliza’s heartbeat.

Slower.

And slower.

She rose, hand still clutching the cord, eyes wide.

It was happening.

Her chest didn’t move.

The monitor was practically sloping downward.

And finally...

A flatline.

The beep stayed ringing, consistent, long.

Any moment, she expected the door to burst open, medics running to attend. She needed to wait as long as possible. Let it be real.

She bent back down, rushed, shoved the plug back into the socket to let the breathing resume.

Standing up again, Eliza’s chest moved under the carnage of flesh and the clear sheet.

But the monitor did not fluctuate.

“I’ll be happy to see you in hell, mom.”

The door flew open.

Practically a mob of medics flooding in, rushing to the bedside with whatever horrendous array of revival tools they had to help revive her.

She stood back, at their command, their words gone not registering in her ears. Her eyes stayed on Eliza’s disfigured face, seeing her unmoving eyes, her chest still bouncing as if that movement meant life inside still occurred.

Their actions were not visible, a blur in her peripherals, chaos in the room trying to bring back something that had left and all that mattered to Sam was that it was gone.

Her mother was gone.

Her parents were dead.

With a twitch of an eyelid, she smiled, staring off at Eliza’s face, through her face, into nothingness as the medics realized the fruitfulness of their attempts.

And so she turned, moving for the door, the dress trailing after her once again as her heels tapped on the tile, leaving behind a corpse that no longer had its perfectly-manicured ironfist grip on her life.

She was free.

#Self-Para #Self Para #event #event: masquerade #Eliza Blackwood #TW: death #TW: murder #tw: burn victim #tw: burns #tw: burn #i realize a lot of this is kinda unrealistic #and not factually accurate #BUT HEY! It's writing #And I am not a law/medical expert #so we'll see what happens as a result of this #But Sam is now an orphan #A filthy fucking rich orphan at that #any questions or random bitching are always welcome to me

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ecotone99 · 4 years

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[MS] Just wrote and expanded my first ever short story. I'm really proud of this one. I would love any feedback you have!

It was an exciting day in the Village, as the Sound House, the main concert venue, pulsed. Its veins were electronica. Its heart and soul? The local punk band, Careerist, a post-punk band gone rogue. Its lead artist, instrumentalist and most notably accordionist Dale Coop was blaring a sweet melody about coffee and donuts through his aching windpipes. A flabbergasted crowd of 10 or so looked on in adoration, as Dale's sweet harmonics fused with the wails of the audience to create an orgasmic resonance. One of these audience members was Brick, a bright young upstart bopping to the ferocious power chords let off by the wild guitars. With one well-placed yelp, a "Woo", Brick unknowingly made a key contribution to Careerist's zeitgeist; the sound waves bounced off Brick's balding head into the ceiling, unleashing a shockwave throughout The Village that even rattled The Village's Spire. "I'm losin' tooouch", Careerist careened in unison, and Brick's best friend Shelton crooned with them; he was much more into the back catalogue of Careerist, in their notorious fan-christened DRK AGE. Shelton initially followed them, his ears perking in curiosity, because of their notorious pro-police agenda; back then, even their name endorsed the tyrannical Peelers, who routinely raided The Village in search of an apple with a somewhat.. unconventional form of icing sugar drifting atop. As his mind drifted, Shelton recalled a somewhat legendary incident the week beforehand wherein a 107 year old man was arrested on suspicion of heroin possession AND illegal, um, operation of a laundromat? As Shelton questioned his memory, Careerist finished their line, wailing, "I don't know what I'm feelin' anymoooore!" After the show finished, and the nearly dozens of people pooled out like a liquid made of human flesh, Brick cornered the fledgeling band. "Hey." He stopped them. "Yes?" barked their bass player, the sexy Tom. He flicked his cascading fringe to the side as he spoke through sunken eyes and black lips, no doubt enhanced by his legendary €5,000 lip growth surgery. "Steyer, right?" Brick said, in a decidedly Trumpish manner. "Yeah, it's Tom Steyer, but you can call me Tommy Steyer." He flashed a perfect grin. "Or Tommy, for short." "You are like Stan." Brick challenged them boldly and brazenly. Tommy looked at Brick with a mixture of surprise, shock and disgust. The band's hulking drummer, however, froze in his tracks. He slowly turned his buldging neck to face the young, soy-filled man challenging the band. His beady eyes quickly scanned the poor bastard's face, noting a lack of facial hair, as though it had never been able to sprout. "Uh oh". Tommy flashed a wicked smirk, catching Dale off guard and causing him to slip clumsily down the stairs. "Boot's angry...!" Boot 'The Boot' Edge turned and displayed his dominance clearly to the hapless Brick. "Who," he bellowed, "the fuck do you think you are? Mucker?" "Me!" Brick shouted. He looked like he had shat a brick. "Do you know Stan? From Eminem? Yeah. You are similar to him - and also to pottery. Dude. Yeah..." Brick's voice retreated into a squeak inaudible to human perception as he stared at Boot's hudge buldge and the terrifying build-up to his Scott Pilgrim style attack. With a warrior cry, Boot swung his mighty fist towards the shiny target that was Brick's swollen enormous head. With one mighty crack, his fist smote Brick's puny cranial matter. The impact sent a shockwave encircling his head, and what little hair he had left wafted off like trees in the face of a mighty asteroid; his head was left like a freshly waxed bowling ball, entirely round and with a few holes. As he fell over, a gentleman walked by and offered his opinion: "That kid be concussed, yo!" Boot roared at the fellow, "Fuck you dude", waving his arms. He left Brick's increasingly wavering vision. The last thing Brick saw that night was Shelton's concerned corneas gazing deep within his rapidly dilating pupils, as his vision faded to black.

***

Brick's eyes slowly peeled open; he could witness only a blurry facsimile of the real world. Only his best friend, Shelton Harry, was visible to him. "Mr. Lloyd?" he heard, muffled as though through a wall of icy foam. "Mr. Lloyd?" This time, it sounded clearer, as though projected through a Fender subwoofer. His favourite brand, Brick thought to himself. His favourite... brand? He was back. He was in the real world again. The Latina nurse bungled over whilst singing a familiar song. Brick could piece together small snippets from her beautiful wailing... "Fiesta".... he heard.... "Salsa, Quinceañera..." As he squinted towards the busty Latina, he whispered to himself, "Lunch..." he realised he was starving. The stout nurse noticed his heed, and promptly negotiated with another, more rotund nurse. He caught a glimpse of her name badge: "Mrs. Rodriguez". The rotund nurse promptly returned with a chicken, mayo and avocado bap. Man, oh man, Brick thought. That hits the spot. He salivated over the thought of the lovely chicken mayo slathering his throat, the avocado a fortified wall of flavour around his mouth. As she rushed over to Brick holding the plate with the food, Brick shouted, "Wait! Wait! Slow down, please!" But it was too late. The Nurse toppled over a lopsided chair, scattering the contents of the sandwich across Brick's hapless face. He yelped once again, a warbling cry far beyond the frequency of human hearing. An unfamiliar sensation crossed his facial skin. Something about the bones underneath felt... different. As he touched his face, fingers parting the sea of mayo and avocado, he came across an alien mound in the center of his visage. His nose felt... bigger, somehow, as though the nurses had slightly increased its size. His jawline felt more prominent. "Well, there goes my Chincel Subforum membership privileges", he quipped, and the entire ward erupted in a sea of laughter, the ocean of sustained noise breaking the sound barrier and destroying the glass apparatus protecting the delicate ward from the plagues and blizzards outside. Mrs. Rodriguez was swept off her feet as she flew out the window on what seemed like the tenth story of the building; the doppler effect ruined her beautiful melody as it transformed into a deathly scream. That scream would haunt Brick for the rest of the foreseeable future. Shelton grabbed his hand, linking their delicate arms together and quickly cupping his own ears to protect his valuable inner ear canals. He quickly ran to the in-house escalator, which descended in a dizzying spiral. The steel steps of the escalator vibrated and shook their feet to the bone, creating another harmonic resonance that gave Shelton a great sensual feeling in his spine. They finally reached the bottom floor of the Gorgeous Man Hospital in South Side Colorado, that they had been shipped to weeks ago. The deafening chorus of glee from floors above had subsumed into a low throbbing bass, and they were finally able to get their bearings. From the corner of his eye, Shelton spotted the decaying, weak body of a great rock hero he had once admired. He let go of the now-recovering Brick to pay his idol a visit. As he approached the body, a doctor with delectable skin like caramel chocolate and a bald head like the finest ceramic sphere stopped him dead in his tracks. "I'm sorry sir, but Mr. Berry is so incredibly frail that going within 10 meters of him will cause you to die in a matter of years, through the vortexes in the air created through the pockets of air still contained within his skin." Brick maintained a flabbergasted expression, before switching to an expression of joy, before switching to an expression of disgust, before switching to an expression of confusion, before switching to an expression of sombre reflection. "Who the fuck are you?" he wailed into the void, possibly to himself, possibly to the declining star on the bed. He didn't quite know anymore. The doctor said, "My name is Dr. Parkerman." Brick's expression quickly turned sour, and he ripped off his own scrubs, exposing his nubile skin and hairless chest to the entire floor. His expression turned innocent for a moment, and he gently eased his head into the doctor's chest; a singular tear rolled down his cheek, as he explained, "My father's uncle... he was a doctor. Pretty good too, but one time... he..." Brick exploded into a barrage of tears, piercing the doctor's skin like machine gun fire. Dr. Parkerman backed off with a dead look in his eyes, robotically brandishing a revolver. "You're a sick man", he shouted. "You're a sick man. Get the fuck away from me." He cocked the revolver but Shelton screamed, "NOOOOO", and dramatically leapt into the path of the speeding bullet, lodging itself firmly in his thumb. Shelton was blown back several yards by the impact of the bullet. He lay on the floor, convulsing and withering, as Brick screamed haplessly in an embarrassingly womanly tone. He lay there, atop Brick's chest, crying healing tears; his sobs had no effect as Shelton's final breaths escaped his plump lips.

***

Part 2 coming soon.

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