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rainbowfic2014-11-19 01:34 am
rootsofthestories) wrote in rainbowfic2014-11-19 01:34 am
Halloween Orange, Spilt Ink
Name: Sebastian
Title: words like blood on the tongue
Story: This City's Got Grace
Colors: Halloween Orange: You can't run or hide, when the thing you fear's inside.
Spilt Ink: Yet you still value the things you've lost the most. Because the things you've lost are still perfect in your head.
Supplies: None
Rating: Pg-13
Warnings: This is all about the aftermath of being a special kind of tortured. So yeah.
Word count; 1014
Notes: Blamebalsamandash I am almost dead sure this is their fault and I'm not entirely sure why but...It is. Also, no really, City's got so many different parts to it, I need o make a...map? Road map? Something, for it.
He tastes the blood when he speaks. He knows there's none there, that nothing happens when he gets the words wrong, but he cant' help but recall the taste of pain, of doing something wrong and being punished for it.
He remembers the taste of chemicals being pumped into him, of skin he never wanted to have his mouth on, of torture after torture because he would always get the words wrong. It was what he deserved they said, if he was stupid enough to not even get the words right. It's what should have happened a long time ago.
~
It was different with her. They hurt her just as much as they did him, but things were given to her when she did well too. Sweets, gentle praise, music. She earned everything she could, perfecting language until it rolled off her tongue like she'd always been able to speak it.
She was trained in every aspect of what she needed to do but language cam easiest to her and she found herself in less and less pain in regards to her words.
~
Both of them lost it though. They tore into their minds, played with their brains and mental landscapes. They ripped them to pieces and rebuild the angels to hat they wanted. They were no longer creatures of a higher power but weapons to be used to bring down the worlds that pushed against the one they knew.
They lost the language they'd been born with and instead, had countless human tongues shoved into their brains to fill in the gap.
It didn't fill it enough though, it never could have.
~
Shaun, that was the name he goes by now, sat at the table, his hands shaking as he stared at the letters before him. It's alphabet cereal but the letters rip him from the present and fall back, back, back into a world of darkness and more pain than he wants to let on.
He knows he's out now, knows he's free and safe and nothing is going ot touch them, but it doesn't matter. He finds himself lost in thought, in memories of blood, of pain, of aching and lost words in his throat.
He feels like he's choking and his hands go to this throat, tearing at the skin there as if somehow that would set the thing lodged in there free.
He's lost tot he world, to the sound of Bobby coming to his side and talking to him of Helena watching from the doorway and looking a little sick and pale. She knows where he is, knows what's happening in his head, and she can't bring herself to get close, less she get sucked in.
~
Helena will go quiet for days.
Sometimes the words aren't there, just dead inside her head and nothing will revive them. Sometimes she's scared she's going to just scream. Sometimes it's a mixture of both and every now and again, she can't even be bothered to pinpoint what's making her go mute.
Her thoughts don't go violent, she doesn't flash back to the hell that had been what life was like when they were captured. She tastes sweetness on her tongue instead, remembers what rewards she would be given and feels her stomach turn and body tense.
She doesn't remember the bad but the glimpses of good she was offered whens he did well.
It makes her want to sew her moth shut and be done with speaking all together.
~
They don't remember how to speak the language they were born with. It was torn from them and they had no real way of recovering it.
The missing piece of who they were weighs heavy on them. They reach for any scrap of language that reminds them of what they had once known and, together, they put together a hodgepodge of noises that they turn into words of their own.
Bobby watches them, says nothing as they stumble through the verbal environment and feels sick to is stomach with guilt.
~
Shaun is sprawled on the floor and Hel on the couch. Neither of them are saying anything and the lights and noise are all off. Bobby enters cautiously, unsure of whether he'll spook them.
He doesn't tough and they wind up looking at him like a pair of cats whose human has come home.
He says hello by waving, then turns to the kitchen of the little apartment, setting down a bag of groceries and quietly, in the tongue they've not heard since they were taken by the Development Center, asks if they can help.
Neither of them know what to say, they don't understand and neither of them want to speak and break the silence that has blossomed between them
Bobby tries again and nothing happens.
On his third try, he offers the request in English and they both look physically more relaxed, getting on their feet and moving wards the kitchen to help.
Bobby excuses himself and promptly goes to the bathroom and gets sick to his stomach.
~
They don't talk about what's lost, the things that have been ripped away from Shaun and Hel without warning. They don't talk about the words that are missing from their minds, or the way their wings are still patchy from chemical reactions.
They don't talk about what life was like, or how thins had been before they'd been captured. That life was not theirs anymore, they didn't get such memories.
Words are hard to come by, really, and they stumble over the landmine of triggers associated with language as carefully as they can. Something always trips though, someone always breaks a little when there's too many words flying around.
Because the words are everything and the words are black holes and the words weigh heavy on their hearts, even the ones they cannot say.
Where they go after that, after their weight has settled in and they are destined to carry it forever, is something the three of them have to learn.
Title: words like blood on the tongue
Story: This City's Got Grace
Colors: Halloween Orange: You can't run or hide, when the thing you fear's inside.
Spilt Ink: Yet you still value the things you've lost the most. Because the things you've lost are still perfect in your head.
Supplies: None
Rating: Pg-13
Warnings: This is all about the aftermath of being a special kind of tortured. So yeah.
Word count; 1014
Notes: Blame
balsamandash I am almost dead sure this is their fault and I'm not entirely sure why but...It is. Also, no really, City's got so many different parts to it, I need o make a...map? Road map? Something, for it. He tastes the blood when he speaks. He knows there's none there, that nothing happens when he gets the words wrong, but he cant' help but recall the taste of pain, of doing something wrong and being punished for it.
He remembers the taste of chemicals being pumped into him, of skin he never wanted to have his mouth on, of torture after torture because he would always get the words wrong. It was what he deserved they said, if he was stupid enough to not even get the words right. It's what should have happened a long time ago.
~
It was different with her. They hurt her just as much as they did him, but things were given to her when she did well too. Sweets, gentle praise, music. She earned everything she could, perfecting language until it rolled off her tongue like she'd always been able to speak it.
She was trained in every aspect of what she needed to do but language cam easiest to her and she found herself in less and less pain in regards to her words.
~
Both of them lost it though. They tore into their minds, played with their brains and mental landscapes. They ripped them to pieces and rebuild the angels to hat they wanted. They were no longer creatures of a higher power but weapons to be used to bring down the worlds that pushed against the one they knew.
They lost the language they'd been born with and instead, had countless human tongues shoved into their brains to fill in the gap.
It didn't fill it enough though, it never could have.
~
Shaun, that was the name he goes by now, sat at the table, his hands shaking as he stared at the letters before him. It's alphabet cereal but the letters rip him from the present and fall back, back, back into a world of darkness and more pain than he wants to let on.
He knows he's out now, knows he's free and safe and nothing is going ot touch them, but it doesn't matter. He finds himself lost in thought, in memories of blood, of pain, of aching and lost words in his throat.
He feels like he's choking and his hands go to this throat, tearing at the skin there as if somehow that would set the thing lodged in there free.
He's lost tot he world, to the sound of Bobby coming to his side and talking to him of Helena watching from the doorway and looking a little sick and pale. She knows where he is, knows what's happening in his head, and she can't bring herself to get close, less she get sucked in.
~
Helena will go quiet for days.
Sometimes the words aren't there, just dead inside her head and nothing will revive them. Sometimes she's scared she's going to just scream. Sometimes it's a mixture of both and every now and again, she can't even be bothered to pinpoint what's making her go mute.
Her thoughts don't go violent, she doesn't flash back to the hell that had been what life was like when they were captured. She tastes sweetness on her tongue instead, remembers what rewards she would be given and feels her stomach turn and body tense.
She doesn't remember the bad but the glimpses of good she was offered whens he did well.
It makes her want to sew her moth shut and be done with speaking all together.
~
They don't remember how to speak the language they were born with. It was torn from them and they had no real way of recovering it.
The missing piece of who they were weighs heavy on them. They reach for any scrap of language that reminds them of what they had once known and, together, they put together a hodgepodge of noises that they turn into words of their own.
Bobby watches them, says nothing as they stumble through the verbal environment and feels sick to is stomach with guilt.
~
Shaun is sprawled on the floor and Hel on the couch. Neither of them are saying anything and the lights and noise are all off. Bobby enters cautiously, unsure of whether he'll spook them.
He doesn't tough and they wind up looking at him like a pair of cats whose human has come home.
He says hello by waving, then turns to the kitchen of the little apartment, setting down a bag of groceries and quietly, in the tongue they've not heard since they were taken by the Development Center, asks if they can help.
Neither of them know what to say, they don't understand and neither of them want to speak and break the silence that has blossomed between them
Bobby tries again and nothing happens.
On his third try, he offers the request in English and they both look physically more relaxed, getting on their feet and moving wards the kitchen to help.
Bobby excuses himself and promptly goes to the bathroom and gets sick to his stomach.
~
They don't talk about what's lost, the things that have been ripped away from Shaun and Hel without warning. They don't talk about the words that are missing from their minds, or the way their wings are still patchy from chemical reactions.
They don't talk about what life was like, or how thins had been before they'd been captured. That life was not theirs anymore, they didn't get such memories.
Words are hard to come by, really, and they stumble over the landmine of triggers associated with language as carefully as they can. Something always trips though, someone always breaks a little when there's too many words flying around.
Because the words are everything and the words are black holes and the words weigh heavy on their hearts, even the ones they cannot say.
Where they go after that, after their weight has settled in and they are destined to carry it forever, is something the three of them have to learn.