His
claws sing in her flesh.
She'd
never known that anything could cut so cleanly. If it weren't for the proof
right beneath her nose, or the almost comical expression on his face, she
probably wouldn't believe that anything had happened. Oh, sure, it hurts like
a bitch, but she's too busy revelling in the contact to care; she knows too
well that even pain is addictive when you normally feel nothing at all.
Those
claws aren't icy, like she would've thought; body-warmed, and her belly
thrills at the thought that its not just her blood on them, but his, too.
It trickles down her stomach like dark wine, and she thinks irrationally of
family picnics back home when she was a little girl, afternoons that seemed to
stretch out into forever.
She
can feel herself reaching out for him, and it's not entirely an involuntary
gesture. Her mind chatters loudly at her, tells her that she's too far gone to
hurt him and that she deserves one last touch before she dies
but
underneath it, she knows that ain't true.
If
she's going to face eternity, she'd rather drag him along with her.
It
takes a moment, and she's terrified that it won't work, that she's going to
face death alone, but then
it starts.
Energy,
like she will never be able to comprehend. She can feel her insides
rearranging themselves, knitting back together without effort. Her nerves
crackle.
And
then the senses kick in.
That
first time with Cody had nothing on this.
Nothing.
She
can smell his overwhelming fear, full and strong and heady, his chaotic mental
jigsaw slowly putting itself together for her.
She
flips carelessly through his memories, finding the darkest still near the
surface after his interrupted sleep and putting them to use. Straps him
down, dims the lights, keeps herself mostly in shadows. Plays casual voyeur
with the most intimate parts of his remembered life, filing away the best for
later. She can feel his dread pulsing into her, feel him, blinding
flashes of memory and emotion. Interesting. For a moment, the featureless
faces swim in front of her face instead, but she pushes it aside. Pushes him
aside. She can deal with him later.
Fear
is something he simply does not allow himself to feel anymore or so he
keeps telling himself but the helplessness brings it all crashing back,
feeding upon itself, multiplying exponentially until he knows little more than
blind panic. She devours it, craving more; she never knew that another's fear
could have a flavour, but it does, tart and bitter and yet oh-so-addictive as
it slides over her tongue.
His
fear, and she's the only one who knows that it exists, let alone what it
tastes like. This is power.
There
are other sensations beneath, so comparatively subtle as to almost be lost.
Exquisite undertones of confusion; an almost delicate hint of resignation; and
pure, unadulterated animal fury, spicy and pungent and arousing. She takes
that in, too, swallows his anger and bewilderment and lust, leaving him with
only sheer terror for company.
She
consumes it slowly, now stupid to think of time when the whole thing is
over so quickly, but she could live in this moment forever savouring the
intricacies of the aroma, the way the flavours turn almost sickly sweet, the
pleasant tingle as he spreads through her. His room dims to shades of the
deepest red with his lifeforce, the world painted in blood tones even as he
fades before her, rough skin cooling beneath her fingers. Sounds start to ease
back in strange, she hadn't been able to hear anything and she picks
out a mouse scritching inside the wall, the dull echo of water moving through
pipes, someone shuffling around the kitchen, the thump-thump-thump of feet
that slows to nothing a few feet away.
She
begins to come back to herself funny, that "coming back to
herself" should consist of giving up the purest experience of her life,
of cutting away another chunk of her soul and shoving part of someone else's
in its place. Even as the horror starts to set in, she grasps for the last
dregs of Logan left, tries for one last split second of perfection.
Reflex
is the only thing that allows her to break contact, hands operating on
autopilot as they let the clammy skin out of their hold for the first and last
time. Her senses are already becoming less distinct. Never mind that they're
still far superior to those of anyone else here; she may as well be blind,
deaf, and chained up in a padded cell.
She
wants to reach out again, feel that intoxicating pull, that flood of sensation
which feels better than anything has a right to.
Life
burns through her body, and yet she feels like she's dying.
They
have an audience; she can't reach down and grab one last brush of bare skin,
lose herself one last glorious time. Knows she won't be able to stop herself.
She
turns, and runs.
--The
End--