DeathWatch II No. 42 – You Missed Breakfast

This is Issue #42 of DeathWatch, Book II: tentatively called Heart Of Ilona, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find DeathWatch, the first in the series, or start from the beginning of Book II!

Happy Reading!

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* * *

Kieron’s body sat in front of the small mirror in its quarters, staring at itself, narrowing its eyes, frowning slightly. It smiled, then, staring out of and back into its pale blue eyes.

Then it pinched its cheeks, stuck out its tongue, stretched its lips, waggled its eyebrows.

It tested out its expressions, and even summoned up a welling of tears by digging its fingers against the stitches around its eye.

It forced a laugh, and tasted the thousands of words on its tongue that were familiar, and yet not.

When it looked at itself in the mirror again, it could see something else in its eyes. Something more familiar. Something regal. Something proud. Something hungry to the point of cruelty.

Something distinctly not Kieron.

The knock at the door was sudden, and for a moment, Kieron was nearly himself. He turned, his eyes widening, and he opened his mouth to shout, to scream, but then suddenly his body snapped his gaze back toward the mirror. “No,” its mouth snarled. “No, no, no. Not yet.”

The knock came again, “Brody?”

“Sha!?” Brody yelped.

“You all right in there?” she called. “You missed breakfast.”

“Not hungry,” he answered, through gritted teeth. He watched himself in the mirror as he pulled a knife from his pocket, and thumbed open the wide, curved, intensely sharp blade. He lifted the blade and pointed it just beneath his wounded eye, saying quietly, “Keep quiet, you wretched little abomination, or I’ll pop it out and make you eat it.”

Kieron closed his mouth, panting.

“I know this is hard, waiting,” came Sha’s answer. “And I know, I know you’re fine, but I have to ask.”

Silence, for a moment, while Kieron simply stared at himself in the mirror, panting.

“Brody?”

“…I’m fine, Captain,” Kieron’s voice answered. “Everything’s fine.” He trembled, sitting there, staring at the knife, staring at himself, then staring at the knife again. Once there was silence from the hallway, he put down the knife and said, “That precious pirate bitch is a fine tease. She fights back. She’ll be perfect.”

“You can’t,” Kieron said to himself, looking sick. “Please. Please stop this–”

“I can do anything I want,” he answered, chuckling lowly. “You can’t stop me, you sorry excuse for a soldier.” The knife was set down, and Kieron looked at himself in the mirror, disdain and sneering contempt written all over his features.

He was startled to see how much like his father he looked, and his face flushed in shame and anger.

“Oh, what a disappointment you were to your father, hmm?” Kieron spat at himself, hatred shining in his eyes. “Couldn’t live up to his expectations, couldn’t–” Kieron’s voice cracked. The angry thing inside him, the horrorshow of death and fury that boiled behind his eyes quieted, examining Kieron’s thoughts, even as the young man struggled to push him away, to push him down, to crush him and keep him from finding out any more secrets.

“Disgusting,” Exosus hissed. “Foul thing.”

“Stop,” Kieron begged. “Please.”

Exosus tore through Kieron’s heart and mind, rifling through memories and secrets, leaving him feeling shredded, lost. “Liar. Betrayer. Filth,” he snarled, staring at himself. “You know you’re wrong. You know you’re disgusting. You can feel it. What you want of that boy? What you did with him? You deserve pain.” He leaned forward, close enough to the glass that his breath fogged it as he snarled. “Punishment.”

Tears rolled down Kieron’s cheeks, and he stared at himself in the mirror, feeling as though he were inside the mirror, looking out at a monster who wore his skin. “Get out of my head,” he begged. “Get out.”

“Can’t,” Exosus taunted. “Won’t.”

Furious, desperate, Kieron lunged at himself, fists crashing at the mirror, pounding it until it shattered, shards falling, flung everywhere. “GET OUT!” he shouted, grabbing up a shard. “You GET OUT.”

The knock at the door came back, and it had grown harder now. Sha banged at the door, pulling at the handle. “Brody?”

“GET OUT!” Kieron screamed, snapping the words off so forcefully he bit his own tongue, and the froth of his saliva began to turn red as he screamed. “GET OUT!”

In the mirror, the thing that wore Kieron’s face simply smiled at him, laughing.

* * *

The door burst in, metal banging on metal, hinges squeaking, the giant gong sound of the latch striking the wall. Danival burst in, and he and Sha found Kieron in front of the broken mirror clutching his forearm, blood running between his fingers. He was already white-cheeked and greylipped as he moved to stand up out of the chair he was in. “I don’t know if it worked,” he said, in a voice that was both paper and wind. His whole body trembled, and his knees turned to water. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he dropped to the floor, boneless and cold.

“The fuck did you do, cadet–” Sha ran for him, tearing the sleeve off her shirt, immediately moving to press down on the wound, then tear off the other, to tie off a tourniquete.

Kieron uttered a low groan in her arms, and his eyes flickered open. He brayed a harsh, toneless laugh, and blood ran over his lips, from his bitten tongue. “That shut him up,” he slurred.

“Who?” Sha asked, hands working quickly, mind working quickly.

Danival moved to help, silent, asking no questions, moving to hold pressure to the wound as Sha tied off the tourniquet.

“It shouldn’t have happened like that. I don’t know–” Kieron whispered. “But he’s quiet now. At least he’s quiet. Couldn’t let him hurt you. ”

“What? Who are you talking about?” Sha wondered, her heart knotted with worry. “Kieron, who’s quiet now? Who’s trying to hurt us?” Something caught Sha’s notice — out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw the blood on the floor move. When she turned, it simply laid there, black-red, cooling, spilled and smeared. It would have to be cleaned up later.

While Sha was looking at the blood, Danival simply picked Kieron up, saying, “The chiurgeon. Now. Is being the only way he might be saved. Too much blood. There are no real answers here, where there is panic and pain. Come now.”

She needed no other urge, and hurried to follow.

* * *

NEXT

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100 Words: Pick Up

“Jones? Don’t run–”

She couldn’t have, if she tried. All she could do was stare.

And shake.

“Fuck, what the bloody fuck did you do t’yerself?”

She looked up, baleful, but the glare fizzled out as she turned her head and vomited.

“Christ.”

There was still enough in her system that when he picked her up she didn’t stop his heart; she fought weakly, then just went limp, and willed herself to die in his arms.

She didn’t.

Instead, she just passed out, and when she woke later, she hated herself for that failure as much as all the others.

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100 Words: Blaze

you gave voice to the fire
gave peace to the flame
let me dance and dance and discover
that I was more than I imagined
bare feet on the marble chip path
blood
and saffron
and turmeric
and egg yolk
and milk
and chalk
lathered over my skin
and by all that burns
I would’ve made my life shorter
if I could’ve been brighter for you
would’ve carved myself
into a single word of love
just to hear you say it
and know your tongue for its song
and your lips for their blessing
even as I fell to silence

Posted in Fiction, Love Poems, Poetry | Leave a comment

DeathWatch II No. 41 – Don’t Fight Me

This is Issue #41 of DeathWatch, Book II: tentatively called Heart Of Ilona, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find DeathWatch, the first in the series, or start from the beginning of Book II!

Happy Reading!

PREVIOUS

* * *

He came back to himself as he tasted salt against his tongue, and was startled from his reverie as he eased back from Secta enough to focus on the tears running over his cheeks, his jaw. “What… What is it?” Jet wondered.

“Secta,” Secta whispered tearfully. “I am only your Secta. I am not …your Kieron.”

The word on someone else’s tongue made Jet flinch. He stepped back and caught sight of himself in the mirror then, and saw the bestial gleam of his golden eyes, and turned from his own gaze. “How do you know that name?”

“You were saying it, just now,” Secta said, his voice low, ashamed. He stared down at the floor, miserable, confused.

Jet stepped back, and moved to pick up the towel, laughing darkly at himself, “Forgive me, m–Secta. I have forgotten myself, and I..” He looked up at the other man, embarrassed and hardly knowing how to handle himself. “I have treated you abominably, you–”

Horrified, Secta stepped forward, reaching for Jet, moving to drop down to his knees, one hand gripping Jet’s wrist. “This is untrue, my Guardian, it is your right to use me as you–”

“No!” Jet snapped, feeling the heat of Secta’s hand on his skin. He pulled his arm up, but Secta was stronger now, than he had been. He did not manage to pull away, but instead, pulled Secta up against him. “You are my famulo, not my slave,” Jet insisted, moving to gently push Secta back.

“I am yours,” Secta said. “You yourself have said it. I am your Secta,” he said. “I am yours. I am yours!” he insisted, shifting to try to take better hold of Jet.

Jet was careful as he squirmed out of Secta’s grasp and tried to pin his arms to his sides, his brows knitting in concern. “I do not own you. I will not,” he insisted in return. “Don’t fight me.”

“All the same, I am yours,” Secta panted, twisting to hook a foot around Jet’s leg, trying to gain a bit of leverage, needing to prove his submission was not weakness, but choice.

They struggled with one another, Jet trying to pin Secta, to still and silence him, so that he could listen to the simple fact that Jet believed him to be a man unto himself, not owned, while Secta tried to do the same, but to teach Jet that the notion did not end there. He was a servant, true, but the development of late, the way his blood had been changed?

It did change him. It changed everything.

Jet lost his balance as Secta pushed, and they tumbled to the slick tile floor, wrestling, thrashing, neither of them willing to surrender. Past feverhot, fire on their tongues, fire in their eyes, they fought with one another, frustration mounting.

Neither knew who hit first, but it went from wrestling to punching in a matter of moments. They traded blows only briefly, however, before it went back to grappling, each trying to outlast the other. Secta took a fistful of Jet’s hair and wretched his head back before bringing it down against the tile, to try to stun his fighting partner, while Jet palmed Secta’s skull, and tried to knock his head against the floor, to do the same.

Growling, each of them bared their teeth at the other, beast-like, panting, clawing. At one point, Jet pinned Secta down, his belly to the other man’s back, and bit against the back of his neck.

Secta’s cry was sharp, and when he bucked backwards, his elbow against Jet’s ribs was, as well.

The guardian rolled to the side, and was stunned when Secta twisted to come after him. They rolled together, then, and Secta ended up beneath Jet again, panting, glaring up at him.

They stared at one another for long moments; Jet glared down at Secta, catching his breath. He tried to get himself ready, tried to find the words to explain to Secta why he needed to simply submit.

Beneath him, Secta rolled his hips, pressing himself up against Jet, never breaking the stare.

Jet sucked a breath in through his teeth, stunned.

Secta leaned up and nipped Jet’s lips, then laid down once more, looking up at him, his chest still heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.

Jet stared down at Secta, glancing down at where they laid hip to hip, and then looked to Secta, watching him, gold eyes meeting gold eyes.

Secta rolled his hips again, then purposefully tipped his head back and bared his throat, saying, “Your Secta.”

Not Kieron.

Jet stared down at Secta for a long time, taking in the look of him, looking at his face, delicate like Kieron’s, almost effeminate like Kieron’s.

Not at all like Kieron’s.

He nodded, saying softly, “My Secta.” He bowed his head and gently kissed where he could still see the pulse at Secta’s throat. He then turned Secta’s face toward him, and kissed him, as he’d once kissed Kieron, as he’d once kissed Immanis.

Secta clung to Jet briefly, overwhelmed at the surrender at last. He returned the kiss with eager hunger, his hands seeking to touch Jet, to offer himself up, breathless in a matter of moments.

When Jet took his hands and pulled them away, then moved to sit up, obviously moved, Secta tried to cover his confusion and disappointment; he didn’t have to try for long — Jet led Secta from the bathroom to his own bed, moving to lay him down, and pull away the last of the clothing that Secta still wore.

When Jet laid himself down, skin to skin, with Secta, Secta reached up to slide his palm against Jet’s cheek, smiling almost shyly. Before he could speak, Jet leaned down and pressed his lips to Secta’s again, silencing any further hesitation from either of them.

Slowly, purposefully, Jet moved to learn Secta, allowed Secta to learn him, allowed himself to turn away from the memory of a love that seemed little more than a long-ago dream, after all that had happened since that first kiss.

* * *

NEXT

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Thinking Things

There are things
I don’t think
of things I don’t think
of these I don’t think
I want to I don’t think
of what I don’t think
of you don’t think
I don’t think
of what you don’t think
I don’t think
we don’t think
of what we don’t think
of me thinking
of not thinking
of not thinking
of not thinking
of you I’m not thinking
of you I’m not thinking
of you
I’m not
I’m not
I am not
I am not
I am

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