#mmangstweek2019d2

[jafndaegur]

The Blood Sacrifice’s True Ugly

“Broken migrant, knife through heel—sing your praise so hell can hear. Where did you come from? The strange, we walk, the touch we feel…Could you find a way to love us all? Don’t wake up.” – Coheed & Cambria

Day Two @mmangstweek . I’m definitely trying to NOT turn this into a Jumin x MC fic rofl. I’m failing miserably. A LOT of triggers in this one, i’m sorrry. With a character whose power is blood sacrifice you can’t expect this to be a happy story until the end…maybe.

Triggers: Bodily harm (both self and from others)

MC’s father hid her eyes behind his hands. Beneath her knees where she had collapsed in front of her mother—she felt the thick and sticky liquid that smelt too much like iron. Her father clutched her closer and his shoulders trembled as he pulled her against his chest. He wouldn’t let her look. And that was okay. It wasn’t too long after that she forgot her mother’s face, and her mother’s name. She didn’t know why; she tried to think of all the good times, all her favorite moments with the woman, but all she could see was an empty face as blank as a wiped chalkboard.

From then on, her father dressed her in a surplus of thick, long clothes. From turtlenecks and gloves to long sock and trousers, not an inch of her wasn’t covered up in some form or capacity. The only place she was allowed visible was her face. He told her it was unlikely for her to bleed there. “Such a pretty face shouldn’t be hidden”, he smiled sadly.

He must’ve been traumatized, she figured. The death of her mother too much for him. He didn’t want to risk her getting hurt. So she stayed careful. Stayed cautious.

The times with him were fond.

He loved walking in the park on the days that were warm. Not an afternoon during the summer, the spring, and the fall were wasted inside. He would pick her up from school, and he would park at a nearby convenience store. Together, they would walk in, and he would buy a coffee and she a soda; he’d purchase dinner from there too, a pair of sandwiches or a couple of hotdogs—whichever was cheaper. From there they would walk down the sidewalk to the local park. Her father was a man of few words, and she was fine with that. Someone like him didn’t need to speak much to show what was on his mind. So she would skip along side him and tell him about her day at school, about the few friends she’d made, about her favorite book that she’d read. He would smile. And she would smile back.

As she grew older, however, her steps became a little less light. He never changed: the same stride, the same tired glance, the same expectations of her to stay covered up. The same old walks in the same old park.

But she changed.

When she entered high school, she figured he was a prude—after all, that was what her classmates called her because of her dress and certainly her wardrobe was not her decision.

The one time she’d mentioned it to him, she said she would like to wear a sun dress, his characteristic passive look had warped. His brow knitted and his lip curled. His eyes stormed. His jaw clenched. “Absolutely not MC”. She had never heard him so frustrated; so scared. For the moment she would apologize and leave it alone. Afterall, he’d never done wrong by her before.

Winter tumbled in harshly during the near tail end of her senior year in high school. They didn’t go outside for walks. She wanted to leave. For once she wanted to leave the house and do whatever she wanted. But with the snow-in came a surprising amount of stern behavior from him. He didn’t let her leave. Normally she did the errands; now he did. Normally she went for the groceries. He would take the car out and return within the hour with whatever they needed for the week. More and more often, he hovered. “Ice is dangerous”, MC. She started to sit and stare out the window, wondering what would happen if she just left. “You could slip and fall, MC”. She stopped wearing her socks, and wore stockings and skirts instead of pants. “What would happen if you hurt yourself”? His stare was less endearing and more crazed.

It was evening. She remembered it like that. The sun crested itself just barely above a hill hollowed of any trees or brush. Rid of anything she might scrape herself on. She was gazing out the kitchen window while she was grating the vegetables for their dinner that evening.

He ranted to her about how he disapproved of her going outside without her gloves on.

Brow twitched, she scraped a carrot harder against the grater. Her father growled on about how it was irresponsible of her to go without anything protecting her fingers. She snapped, whipped around, and sliced the side of her palm against the sharp little edges of the kitchen utensil.

“God, I wish you’d just leave me alone!”

MOBILE USERS HERE IS WHERE, THE TW KICKS IN. FOR WHATEVER REASON, MOBILE IS NOT KEEPING THE “KEEP READING” LINK

His expression into hurt, and his big brown eyes widened. Hands fell to the side and he stuttered. His eyes lowered and noticed the slice on her hand, shiny red blood trickling down her wrist.

Her father’s eyes widened, he yelped with a cracked voice and reached out suddenly . “MC—”

Then he was gone.

There was no flash or snap or brush of magic. Just one moment he was there. And the next he wasn’t.

At first she thought it was a joke, or something to make her feel bad. She waited for him to go home. Upstairs, she wrapped her hand with gauze after applying a little bit of disinfectant. He didn’t come home. Took a shower, put on pajamas, made apology hot chocolate. She even did some of her homework, but by the time the clock read three am, and her father wasn’t home—she could only hope that he’d gone to cool off from the argument. In her mind she couldn’t remember the last time they’d gotten into a fight. Perhaps he thought that they both needed a little bit of time. He’d be back in the morning, she told herself.

He did not come home the next morning.

She waited for a day. Then two. On the third day, she looked through obituaries, her emails, the news, anything to tell her if he had died or gone missing. She called the police on the fifth day. She told them he was missing—they told her he was not.

Her father never came home again.

MC stopped going to school. She worked a job, but never made the money to keep the house. Although somehow the bills were always paid and on time. She didn’t know why her father was staying away, if he was clearly alive and well.

At the time, she wondered why he would listen to such a simple wish.

But that was her second encounter with Blood Sacrifice.

Later in her life, since she didn’t have the finalized education higher than middle school, MC had resorted to some…undesirable jobs. After one night with a man, he’d accidentally cut her thigh with his belt buckle. He’d been purring in her ear as he was leaving about how he wished she would give him another hour. She’d been done for the night. But her body seized as he apologized profusely for the injury. Her own limbs worked against her—wrapping her arms around his neck, and pulling him closer as she told him she’d give him another hour if he paid for it—he was ecstatic, the bleeding gash forgotten.

Her third encounter with Blood Sacrifice.

MC found more and more people somehow figured out about her power. Someone stabbed her in the bicep with an ice scraper, they wished for money to pay off a loan-shark’s loan. Another person tore her lip while they were kissing her, they wished for their wife’s undying love so they wouldn’t have to keep seeing MC. Bit by bit, her body became a bit more tore up as she gave more and more of her wishes away. She’d tried to stab herself too, right above her collar-bone. She wished to see her father again, for him to sweep her away so she could cry against her chest and tell him she was so sorry for stupid words during an even more stupid argument.

Shortly after that wish, as she hobbled through her home city, she discovered two things. While she’d been living in an alley the past few years, in the sheltered shadow of a dumpster—more and more people like her had appeared. They were called Oddities; people with strange mutations and powers of all sorts, just like characters from old time comic books and superhero movies.

The second thing she discovered, was her father. It was fall, and she’d been close to that local grocery store they’d frequented so much—it was the first time since his disappearance. A church had been built behind there. That was new. She snuck in, through the back, hoping she could find loose bulletins she could use as mats for her bed. Instead she found a wall of cremated people. Her father’s name among the dozens.

She smiled. He really had just left her alone.

Life after that was blurry. She collapsed at the wall of burned bodies. Her vision swam. Who knew how many days it’d been since she fell there. A flash of golden hair as bright as flames, and brilliant green eyes just as warm as frozen jade. A tender hand around her wrist, pulling her—a Savior from death or a Sentencer to life…

And then nothing.

MC shrieked as she sat up. An IV had been strapped to her arm and a heart monitor beeped pleasantly next to her. In front of her, with his hand recoiling from her temple, was the crazy ghost in the suit from earlier. Except this time he wasn’t a specter. His fingers had left a warm graze angst her head.

She seethed, knowing perfectly well what happened. “You. Read. My. Memories.”

“I,” he paused, as if considering what to say be for narrowing his grey eyes and setting his expression as blank as snow. “I did. They were as open as a journal entry. Thank you for your cooperation.”

She searched for anything to cut herself on—she was going to kill him.  

#mysmeangstweek #tw: bodily harm #mmangstweek2019d2 #day two #trauma and journal entries #mystic messenger #mysme #i'm sorrryyyyy #au: horrific superhero #angst #mmangstweek