Burnt Flower
Horror Mistress
Author’s Notes: Wow, I actually wrote another one-shot! And it’s my first fic that’s written in first-person POV. :O
…Yeah, it’s going to suck.
Rated R and this is a horror one-shot as usual. Lots of gruesome bloody scenes in this one and a very dark premise. You’ve been warned. Also take in mind that the views of my character DO NOT reflect my own.
Disclaimer: Pokemon will never be mine.
I’ve loved raw meat since as long as I can remember.
Though I don’t know exactly when I started liking the taste of regular, insipid meat, I can still envision with startling clarity the first red, uncooked steak I’ve ever laid my eyes upon. My mother was preparing a fancy dinner that she usually did on Saturdays; she said it was to bring the whole family together, though I knew for a fact that it was just to show off her expensive porcelain Pokemon dolls she bought every week with dad’s hard-earned money. I remember wandering aimlessly around the house (I never considered it a home – it was a boring place that had mom’s bad taste oozing from every frilly ribbon-covered corner) in my pink puffy pajamas and fluffy slippers and decided to have a quick midday snack since I had nothing better to do.
I almost always avoided the kitchen, a dazzling white room that usually left me blind for several long anguishing seconds if I ever dared to enter, but my boredom and hunger overcame my animosity towards that particular space. I checked the fridge eagerly, but to my disappointment, the only thing left to eat were several opened banana yogurts that looked remarkably similar to freshly squeezed out pus; an unwanted image of my older brother popping his pimples came to my mind, and I slammed the refrigerator door shut in disgust.
I faintly recall rubbing soothingly my grumbling stomach before I spotted the most magnificent and succulent thing that I would ever taste in my whole worthless life. It was on the kitchen counter, lying there next to a large and shiny knife firmly wedged between its bloody side. I went towards it in a trance-like state, a curiosity that completely overwhelmed my rational side. I had held it almost reverently between my two small pale hands, not caring that a thin stream of filthy blood was sliding slickly through my fingers and staining my nightgown. The stained knife clattered to the floor, as I threw it away carelessly, and for the first time in my life, I touched the one important thing that would forever alter my perception of the world that surrounded me. I timidly closed my mouth on the crimson meat and nibbled on one slippery end.
The first bite was divine.
Its intoxicating, salty flavor invaded all my senses until my joyful sobs were muffled by the savory mouthful of crude Miltank flesh. Poochie, my loyal pet Poochyena, heard my ecstatic wails and went towards me in alarm. Once he saw me safe and sound, he wagged his tail back and forth like a soothing pendulum and gently rested his head alongside mine.
He lightly reassured me with his quiet nudges, but I understood those gestures perfectly. It was okay…it was alright… I didn’t have to feel guilty about this newborn, confusing passion I now had. I offered him one large, juicy piece in thanks and we sat in silent camaraderie side-by-side, eating – simply eating, that appetizing pulp in pure happiness.
I still don’t know what attracted me to it in the first place. Could it have been that lovely shade of dark red that no other thing possessed? Or maybe it was the absolutely delightful deformed feel it had? Still, I am certain these thoughts haven’t crossed my then innocent mind at the time I first touched it – tasted it, and changed who I was for the better. But I knew that I was meant to do this.
…Born to do it.
I knew at that precise moment that my whole existence suddenly narrowed down to the dripping, bloody steak that I had been worshipping with my mouth.
Even at that young age, I accepted my fate willingly.
Unfortunately, there was one idiot who did not acknowledge this.
My mother found out almost immediately about my new obsession. She called me a freak. A monster. An abhorrent stain on the ancient Fernandez family name. I couldn’t comprehend her angry tears at that time, or why she slapped my precious deity with a furious vengeance that bordered on true madness. Poochie tried to stop her but his loyalty for my mother won him over, even when she yanked the piece of meat he was dining on and threw it violently upon his back. He walked out of the kitchen defeated, tail between his legs, and his gray coarse fur spattered with blood. Looking back on it now, I should’ve done something, anything instead of crying like the disconsolate, deplorable girl I was back then.
From then on, I was treated like the black sheep – the hideous runt - whose presence should be hidden from the public eye. I was taken out of my elementary school, to forever part with my old childhood friends, and to be locked like a prisoner in my own wretched house. I had to grudgingly learn from a horrible hag of a teacher who taught me useless stuff (like trigonometry – who the hell cared about triangles anyway?) inside the lonely, cold recesses of my room. I think those were one of the bleakest moments of my life, reading countless amounts of dull books that held absolutely no meaning in the dark (since my windows were boarded up) and my apathy overwhelming my other senses until I had nothing else to look forward to each day.
But the worst part of it all was the strict deprivation of my delicious, forbidden snack. I longed for it – dreamt about its unearthly flavor, until I woke up countless nights tangled up in my bed sheets, howling for my delectable meal. Those despairing days drew on and on until I was just a shivering, incoherent mass that desperately wanted her reason for living back again. Not even poor Poochie could bring me out of this insanity that threatened to consume me.
I cursed my mother over and over until she became the sole demon of all my misery. I refused to eat anything she or anyone else offered and I considered it as a personal offense when one day she served me a cooked hamburger patty for lunch. I took pride in my haggard and malnourished appearance - it was a clear sign that my mother’s fierce determination to change me was not working at all.
Of course, my mother noticed it too.
I’ve always hated doctors. They’re disgusting necrophiliacs that hide under the false premise to help people, but I knew for a fact that they eagerly wait for their patient’s death so they could get their wrinkled hands all over their dead, clammy skin. My mother thought Dr. Robinson could actually help me and put a stop to what she considered, “This demented stage my daughter, Agnes, is going through.” I hated that name: Agnes. My old classmates could never pronounce it correctly and yet my fool of a mother still kept calling me that horrendous name despite all my protests. And to call my lust a ‘demented stage’? I’m surprised I never caused her any physical harm.
Dr. Robinson, a kind-looking old man who had a bushy white mustache that hid most of his wrinkled, papery face, told me I was in perfect conditions though slightly underfed. He didn’t see anything wrong with me, much to my mother’s great displeasure. He even said to her, “As healthy as a Ponyta.” He expected me to smile – to laugh at his pathetic attempt of a joke, but I merely sneered and turned my back on him.
This had been the start of my difficult childhood.
Almost fifteen years have passed since my six-year old self became addicted to the exquisite taste of raw meat.
As soon as my body turned from a petty, insignificant girl who braided her long black hair with pink string, into an ashen-faced, sallow woman with sunken blue eyes, my mother decided to enroll me in the army. I was perplexed with this arrangement at the time, but after reminiscing here for quite a while, her decision made sense. My mother wanted to get rid of me for years but she was afraid what the public would say if she had done so without preamble. And what more perfect excuse than to say that her daughter was going to war to protect her country?
I didn’t complain at all; in fact, I actually awaited my departure eagerly. I was tired of only seeing real sunlight through the cracks of the splintered planks of wood that lined my windows or to eat bountiful amounts of tasteless slop that left me even hungrier than before. I only endured this torture thanks to the weekly visits my dear Poochie made to my room, secretly carrying a small piece of appetizing beef inside his muzzle.
I longed for the freedom that this new path could bring to me. No more restrictions that would bind my soul to earthly expectations, protocols, and regulations. There was just only one sweet, age-old rule in the battlefield: To kill or to be killed.
This prospect excited me like nothing else did.
The physical training was monotonous and repetitive, yet quite strenuous for my thin, weak body. The fierce determination was the only thing that kept my spirit going during the daily pushups, sit-ups, and five-mile runs under fifteen minutes I had to do every day. Once I passed all these difficult exams, I was sent to a little camp in the middle of nowhere.
That was when I met Jake.
Jake was a tall, burly guy with a clean-shaven head and a winning smile that made all the ladies swoon. I wasn’t one of them, but I truly admired him because of his exceptional skills in the battlefield; he was a bit of a legend since he killed enemy soldiers not with his gun, but with an ordinary dagger he carried everywhere. People told me he had a girlfriend named Merle, yet no one divulged more information when I asked. They hardly ever touched or befriended him and looked at his dagger with a wary eye.
Real meat, as well as fruit, was a rare luxury. We usually ate canned beans and bland vegetables that left a dry taste in my mouth and a deep longing for my darling in my heart. So I was more than elated when a large supply arrived carrying real meat; I stole a part of it when no one was looking. Jake was lazing around, when I grabbed his dagger and cut a large piece of the frozen meat vigorously before dropping the dagger without any other thought. I was thawing my palatable beauty by the open fire when I heard him speak softly.
“You’ve touched Merle.”
That single phrase made me stop cold and turn my somber eyes upon his amazed countenance. His eyes sparked with what I wrongly deduced as fiery rage but just when I expected him to hit me, he did something even more surprising. He laughed – a deep, throaty sound that made me inwardly cringe but nevertheless I joined him in his funny glee, though my high-pitched laughter sounded more like the frantic cry of a drowning Pokemon. Just like so many years back, I offered my companion a slimy piece, after the hot flames had finally melted all the ice from my glistening treasure.
He pretended to eat it, but he couldn’t quite hide his repugnance when I boldly placed a thick slice on top of his hands. Despite his barely concealed revulsion, it still made me smile, since for the first time I had the warm relieving feeling that someone understood this ardent craving that invaded my every thought. The only other time I felt this sense of true approbation was when I sat beside Poochie in an intimate companionability that only close friends could share. It was in this harmonious moment that he began to tell me his life.
His ex-girlfriend, who was also coincidentally named Merle, gave him his precious dagger as a sweet anniversary present for their third week together even though Jake could’ve cared less about her. She had been a joyful woman that smothered him with affection at every possible moment - something that Jake couldn’t stand. Sadly, Merle died some months ago, in a destructive bombing that left hundreds dead, thousands injured, and transformed the whole country into a battered, radioactive wasteland. Jake named his dagger after his deceased girlfriend, though in an ironic twist of fate, he fell in love with it.
I was the only one who wasn’t bothered by Jake’s loving caresses, the way he softly murmured ‘my lover’ to his silver dagger, or the silent way he kissed the sharp edge until some unnoticeable drops of blood tinged its lovely surface. I don’t know if this was a severe case of misplaced love, nor do I care if it actually wasn’t. All I know is that this mutual understanding of our ghastly reality was identical to one another’s and because of that, a sick, special bond formed between us.
Other than the true meaning of friendship, there was another important thing I learned in my whole twenty-one years of existence: Freedom comes at a high price. It stained my soul with a grisly, dark blotch that I knew was corrupting my heart. I didn’t exactly care about the people I viciously killed, nor the anguish that caused the loved ones who knew him or her; all of that barely caused me any remorse, on the contrary, I felt indifferent to their pleas when I took their lives away.
I only felt guilty of the people who I was protecting their freedom for. Sitting there, completely unaware that some unknown person was fighting, killing and saving their despicable hides. How could they live with themselves knowing that their existence was tainted by the blood of thousands? At least I only killed half a dozen guys, and yet they still continue on their lives unaware that almost every death is placed on them? I guess ignorance is bliss.
I knew my increasing hunger over the sight of rotten, decomposing corpses was not normal, and I controlled myself with every ounce of mental strength I had. It was as clear to me as the bright, resplendent sunlight that penetrated the obscuring smoke that my all-engrossing appetite was subtly evolving and demanding a much different kind of meat than the ones I have previously devoured. I tried to hide the way my tongue would lick my cracked lips every time I looked at the carcasses’ warm blood-splattered, torsos, but I had to dominate these impulses even as I grew more and more ravenous with each and every fucking day.
It was on one fateful morning that we had the mission to annihilate the enemy troops that were heading to the north. It wasn’t something that preoccupied me but I had no idea that my commander’s off-hand decision would change our lives.
We traveled on the back of a grimy and battered truck, all huddled up together and joking around nervously, knowing that some of us wouldn’t make it out alive. The truck stopped in one particular desolate place since it’d be too dangerous to continue on, and left us in a barren land that was befouled by the lives the war had taken. We marched cautiously, conscious that one wrong step could be our downfall. The enemy took us by surprise, and soon, Jake and I were separated by a swarm of armed, bloodthirsty enemies.
He wasn’t able to scream when the bullet hit him directly.
I was shooting another random woman before I saw him falling gracefully, almost twisting with undeniable elegance as he fell to the grimy floor. I was too far away, even as I ran as fast as I could, to stop her when she arrived.
The girl, clutching a fried and ripped doll from one small hand, grabbed Merle with astounding agility, and followed a stray Zigzagoon with an almost manic determination shining brightly in her eyes. When I saw her running, I didn’t pay her any attention until I saw her stealing Jake’s unmistakable dagger.
The nerve, the utter and abominable nerve the girl had to just grab Jake’s one and only treasure. A blinding hatred welled up in my heart and with a scream that almost edged into hysteria, I aimed my trusty black handgun at her. As soon as I had done that, a tremendous force slammed into my back.
“Don’t do it, Fernandez! She’s just a kid!” A guy screamed angrily, while violently holding my arms in a desperate attempt to hold me back from my furious tirade.
“That bitch deserves to die!” I think I had said, as I violently tried to shake off my comrade and point the gun at the retreating back of the treacherous girl. She was gone in a flurry of dust and gun powder, carrying away with her all the failed dreams Jake used to have in his heart. I slumped into a dazed and defeated pile on the floor, whimpering all the while as I crawled toward Jake.
Ever felt that memories are all blurry and indistinct to one another? Here I am now, looking at my world that has now exploded into millions of dazzling colors now that I’m out of my reminiscing mood. The sweaty and crying men as they weep over their fallen friends…the undeniable mix of fear and death that would be forever etched on the decomposing dead…I watch all of this with a tear-streaked, smiling face. There’s nothing like living in the moment and truly experiencing the events that are transpiring now, even if you don’t want to recall them later on in life.
Cuddling up against the cold, muddied cadaver of the one who used to be my confidant and my best friend, is something I never wish to remember, but yet…I’m happy. I continue to look up at the fighting and knowing that hugging him, that staying with my friend in these drastic circumstances is a limited, precious time. The enemy will soon find us.
As I stared down at my beloved with glazed eyes, I made one decision; I wanted a little small part of Jake to be a part of me forever - to know that no matter what happened next, we would be joined together for all eternity. And… I couldn’t stand my mind-bending hunger anymore.
I succumbed to my desires.
I ripped his camouflage green shirt with avaricious and desirous hands, like a child desperate for a long awaited treat. I gladly sunk my teeth into the deep, purple wound, drawing the scarlet blood out with eager laps of my quick tongue. I knew Poochie would be proud of me and wouldn’t look down on my actions if he were here. I grin knowingly, imagining my Pokemon friend’s reaction as he surveyed me with sparkling, proud eyes as I tear a layer after layer of juicy muscle.
I never particularly cared for humanity, though I had protected them with everything I had and risked my life for their safety. Jake was an exception; his heart had been filled with boundless goodness, kindness and a surprising generosity that was not the norm among us disgusting and greedy humans. I know this with every part of my war-torn soul.
After all…
His heart was the last thing I tasted.
This is an alternate universe to my first one-shot 'A Life's Worth' and 'Within One's Reach' (which was a prequel of sorts to ALW).
Yeah, yeah...I know what you're thinking...
*wears anti-flame suit*
…Yeah, it’s going to suck.
Rated R and this is a horror one-shot as usual. Lots of gruesome bloody scenes in this one and a very dark premise. You’ve been warned. Also take in mind that the views of my character DO NOT reflect my own.
Disclaimer: Pokemon will never be mine.
Contaminated Freedom
I’ve loved raw meat since as long as I can remember.
Though I don’t know exactly when I started liking the taste of regular, insipid meat, I can still envision with startling clarity the first red, uncooked steak I’ve ever laid my eyes upon. My mother was preparing a fancy dinner that she usually did on Saturdays; she said it was to bring the whole family together, though I knew for a fact that it was just to show off her expensive porcelain Pokemon dolls she bought every week with dad’s hard-earned money. I remember wandering aimlessly around the house (I never considered it a home – it was a boring place that had mom’s bad taste oozing from every frilly ribbon-covered corner) in my pink puffy pajamas and fluffy slippers and decided to have a quick midday snack since I had nothing better to do.
I almost always avoided the kitchen, a dazzling white room that usually left me blind for several long anguishing seconds if I ever dared to enter, but my boredom and hunger overcame my animosity towards that particular space. I checked the fridge eagerly, but to my disappointment, the only thing left to eat were several opened banana yogurts that looked remarkably similar to freshly squeezed out pus; an unwanted image of my older brother popping his pimples came to my mind, and I slammed the refrigerator door shut in disgust.
I faintly recall rubbing soothingly my grumbling stomach before I spotted the most magnificent and succulent thing that I would ever taste in my whole worthless life. It was on the kitchen counter, lying there next to a large and shiny knife firmly wedged between its bloody side. I went towards it in a trance-like state, a curiosity that completely overwhelmed my rational side. I had held it almost reverently between my two small pale hands, not caring that a thin stream of filthy blood was sliding slickly through my fingers and staining my nightgown. The stained knife clattered to the floor, as I threw it away carelessly, and for the first time in my life, I touched the one important thing that would forever alter my perception of the world that surrounded me. I timidly closed my mouth on the crimson meat and nibbled on one slippery end.
The first bite was divine.
Its intoxicating, salty flavor invaded all my senses until my joyful sobs were muffled by the savory mouthful of crude Miltank flesh. Poochie, my loyal pet Poochyena, heard my ecstatic wails and went towards me in alarm. Once he saw me safe and sound, he wagged his tail back and forth like a soothing pendulum and gently rested his head alongside mine.
He lightly reassured me with his quiet nudges, but I understood those gestures perfectly. It was okay…it was alright… I didn’t have to feel guilty about this newborn, confusing passion I now had. I offered him one large, juicy piece in thanks and we sat in silent camaraderie side-by-side, eating – simply eating, that appetizing pulp in pure happiness.
I still don’t know what attracted me to it in the first place. Could it have been that lovely shade of dark red that no other thing possessed? Or maybe it was the absolutely delightful deformed feel it had? Still, I am certain these thoughts haven’t crossed my then innocent mind at the time I first touched it – tasted it, and changed who I was for the better. But I knew that I was meant to do this.
…Born to do it.
I knew at that precise moment that my whole existence suddenly narrowed down to the dripping, bloody steak that I had been worshipping with my mouth.
Even at that young age, I accepted my fate willingly.
***
Unfortunately, there was one idiot who did not acknowledge this.
My mother found out almost immediately about my new obsession. She called me a freak. A monster. An abhorrent stain on the ancient Fernandez family name. I couldn’t comprehend her angry tears at that time, or why she slapped my precious deity with a furious vengeance that bordered on true madness. Poochie tried to stop her but his loyalty for my mother won him over, even when she yanked the piece of meat he was dining on and threw it violently upon his back. He walked out of the kitchen defeated, tail between his legs, and his gray coarse fur spattered with blood. Looking back on it now, I should’ve done something, anything instead of crying like the disconsolate, deplorable girl I was back then.
From then on, I was treated like the black sheep – the hideous runt - whose presence should be hidden from the public eye. I was taken out of my elementary school, to forever part with my old childhood friends, and to be locked like a prisoner in my own wretched house. I had to grudgingly learn from a horrible hag of a teacher who taught me useless stuff (like trigonometry – who the hell cared about triangles anyway?) inside the lonely, cold recesses of my room. I think those were one of the bleakest moments of my life, reading countless amounts of dull books that held absolutely no meaning in the dark (since my windows were boarded up) and my apathy overwhelming my other senses until I had nothing else to look forward to each day.
But the worst part of it all was the strict deprivation of my delicious, forbidden snack. I longed for it – dreamt about its unearthly flavor, until I woke up countless nights tangled up in my bed sheets, howling for my delectable meal. Those despairing days drew on and on until I was just a shivering, incoherent mass that desperately wanted her reason for living back again. Not even poor Poochie could bring me out of this insanity that threatened to consume me.
I cursed my mother over and over until she became the sole demon of all my misery. I refused to eat anything she or anyone else offered and I considered it as a personal offense when one day she served me a cooked hamburger patty for lunch. I took pride in my haggard and malnourished appearance - it was a clear sign that my mother’s fierce determination to change me was not working at all.
Of course, my mother noticed it too.
I’ve always hated doctors. They’re disgusting necrophiliacs that hide under the false premise to help people, but I knew for a fact that they eagerly wait for their patient’s death so they could get their wrinkled hands all over their dead, clammy skin. My mother thought Dr. Robinson could actually help me and put a stop to what she considered, “This demented stage my daughter, Agnes, is going through.” I hated that name: Agnes. My old classmates could never pronounce it correctly and yet my fool of a mother still kept calling me that horrendous name despite all my protests. And to call my lust a ‘demented stage’? I’m surprised I never caused her any physical harm.
Dr. Robinson, a kind-looking old man who had a bushy white mustache that hid most of his wrinkled, papery face, told me I was in perfect conditions though slightly underfed. He didn’t see anything wrong with me, much to my mother’s great displeasure. He even said to her, “As healthy as a Ponyta.” He expected me to smile – to laugh at his pathetic attempt of a joke, but I merely sneered and turned my back on him.
This had been the start of my difficult childhood.
***
Almost fifteen years have passed since my six-year old self became addicted to the exquisite taste of raw meat.
As soon as my body turned from a petty, insignificant girl who braided her long black hair with pink string, into an ashen-faced, sallow woman with sunken blue eyes, my mother decided to enroll me in the army. I was perplexed with this arrangement at the time, but after reminiscing here for quite a while, her decision made sense. My mother wanted to get rid of me for years but she was afraid what the public would say if she had done so without preamble. And what more perfect excuse than to say that her daughter was going to war to protect her country?
I didn’t complain at all; in fact, I actually awaited my departure eagerly. I was tired of only seeing real sunlight through the cracks of the splintered planks of wood that lined my windows or to eat bountiful amounts of tasteless slop that left me even hungrier than before. I only endured this torture thanks to the weekly visits my dear Poochie made to my room, secretly carrying a small piece of appetizing beef inside his muzzle.
I longed for the freedom that this new path could bring to me. No more restrictions that would bind my soul to earthly expectations, protocols, and regulations. There was just only one sweet, age-old rule in the battlefield: To kill or to be killed.
This prospect excited me like nothing else did.
The physical training was monotonous and repetitive, yet quite strenuous for my thin, weak body. The fierce determination was the only thing that kept my spirit going during the daily pushups, sit-ups, and five-mile runs under fifteen minutes I had to do every day. Once I passed all these difficult exams, I was sent to a little camp in the middle of nowhere.
That was when I met Jake.
Jake was a tall, burly guy with a clean-shaven head and a winning smile that made all the ladies swoon. I wasn’t one of them, but I truly admired him because of his exceptional skills in the battlefield; he was a bit of a legend since he killed enemy soldiers not with his gun, but with an ordinary dagger he carried everywhere. People told me he had a girlfriend named Merle, yet no one divulged more information when I asked. They hardly ever touched or befriended him and looked at his dagger with a wary eye.
Real meat, as well as fruit, was a rare luxury. We usually ate canned beans and bland vegetables that left a dry taste in my mouth and a deep longing for my darling in my heart. So I was more than elated when a large supply arrived carrying real meat; I stole a part of it when no one was looking. Jake was lazing around, when I grabbed his dagger and cut a large piece of the frozen meat vigorously before dropping the dagger without any other thought. I was thawing my palatable beauty by the open fire when I heard him speak softly.
“You’ve touched Merle.”
That single phrase made me stop cold and turn my somber eyes upon his amazed countenance. His eyes sparked with what I wrongly deduced as fiery rage but just when I expected him to hit me, he did something even more surprising. He laughed – a deep, throaty sound that made me inwardly cringe but nevertheless I joined him in his funny glee, though my high-pitched laughter sounded more like the frantic cry of a drowning Pokemon. Just like so many years back, I offered my companion a slimy piece, after the hot flames had finally melted all the ice from my glistening treasure.
He pretended to eat it, but he couldn’t quite hide his repugnance when I boldly placed a thick slice on top of his hands. Despite his barely concealed revulsion, it still made me smile, since for the first time I had the warm relieving feeling that someone understood this ardent craving that invaded my every thought. The only other time I felt this sense of true approbation was when I sat beside Poochie in an intimate companionability that only close friends could share. It was in this harmonious moment that he began to tell me his life.
His ex-girlfriend, who was also coincidentally named Merle, gave him his precious dagger as a sweet anniversary present for their third week together even though Jake could’ve cared less about her. She had been a joyful woman that smothered him with affection at every possible moment - something that Jake couldn’t stand. Sadly, Merle died some months ago, in a destructive bombing that left hundreds dead, thousands injured, and transformed the whole country into a battered, radioactive wasteland. Jake named his dagger after his deceased girlfriend, though in an ironic twist of fate, he fell in love with it.
I was the only one who wasn’t bothered by Jake’s loving caresses, the way he softly murmured ‘my lover’ to his silver dagger, or the silent way he kissed the sharp edge until some unnoticeable drops of blood tinged its lovely surface. I don’t know if this was a severe case of misplaced love, nor do I care if it actually wasn’t. All I know is that this mutual understanding of our ghastly reality was identical to one another’s and because of that, a sick, special bond formed between us.
Other than the true meaning of friendship, there was another important thing I learned in my whole twenty-one years of existence: Freedom comes at a high price. It stained my soul with a grisly, dark blotch that I knew was corrupting my heart. I didn’t exactly care about the people I viciously killed, nor the anguish that caused the loved ones who knew him or her; all of that barely caused me any remorse, on the contrary, I felt indifferent to their pleas when I took their lives away.
I only felt guilty of the people who I was protecting their freedom for. Sitting there, completely unaware that some unknown person was fighting, killing and saving their despicable hides. How could they live with themselves knowing that their existence was tainted by the blood of thousands? At least I only killed half a dozen guys, and yet they still continue on their lives unaware that almost every death is placed on them? I guess ignorance is bliss.
I knew my increasing hunger over the sight of rotten, decomposing corpses was not normal, and I controlled myself with every ounce of mental strength I had. It was as clear to me as the bright, resplendent sunlight that penetrated the obscuring smoke that my all-engrossing appetite was subtly evolving and demanding a much different kind of meat than the ones I have previously devoured. I tried to hide the way my tongue would lick my cracked lips every time I looked at the carcasses’ warm blood-splattered, torsos, but I had to dominate these impulses even as I grew more and more ravenous with each and every fucking day.
It was on one fateful morning that we had the mission to annihilate the enemy troops that were heading to the north. It wasn’t something that preoccupied me but I had no idea that my commander’s off-hand decision would change our lives.
We traveled on the back of a grimy and battered truck, all huddled up together and joking around nervously, knowing that some of us wouldn’t make it out alive. The truck stopped in one particular desolate place since it’d be too dangerous to continue on, and left us in a barren land that was befouled by the lives the war had taken. We marched cautiously, conscious that one wrong step could be our downfall. The enemy took us by surprise, and soon, Jake and I were separated by a swarm of armed, bloodthirsty enemies.
He wasn’t able to scream when the bullet hit him directly.
I was shooting another random woman before I saw him falling gracefully, almost twisting with undeniable elegance as he fell to the grimy floor. I was too far away, even as I ran as fast as I could, to stop her when she arrived.
The girl, clutching a fried and ripped doll from one small hand, grabbed Merle with astounding agility, and followed a stray Zigzagoon with an almost manic determination shining brightly in her eyes. When I saw her running, I didn’t pay her any attention until I saw her stealing Jake’s unmistakable dagger.
The nerve, the utter and abominable nerve the girl had to just grab Jake’s one and only treasure. A blinding hatred welled up in my heart and with a scream that almost edged into hysteria, I aimed my trusty black handgun at her. As soon as I had done that, a tremendous force slammed into my back.
“Don’t do it, Fernandez! She’s just a kid!” A guy screamed angrily, while violently holding my arms in a desperate attempt to hold me back from my furious tirade.
“That bitch deserves to die!” I think I had said, as I violently tried to shake off my comrade and point the gun at the retreating back of the treacherous girl. She was gone in a flurry of dust and gun powder, carrying away with her all the failed dreams Jake used to have in his heart. I slumped into a dazed and defeated pile on the floor, whimpering all the while as I crawled toward Jake.
Ever felt that memories are all blurry and indistinct to one another? Here I am now, looking at my world that has now exploded into millions of dazzling colors now that I’m out of my reminiscing mood. The sweaty and crying men as they weep over their fallen friends…the undeniable mix of fear and death that would be forever etched on the decomposing dead…I watch all of this with a tear-streaked, smiling face. There’s nothing like living in the moment and truly experiencing the events that are transpiring now, even if you don’t want to recall them later on in life.
Cuddling up against the cold, muddied cadaver of the one who used to be my confidant and my best friend, is something I never wish to remember, but yet…I’m happy. I continue to look up at the fighting and knowing that hugging him, that staying with my friend in these drastic circumstances is a limited, precious time. The enemy will soon find us.
As I stared down at my beloved with glazed eyes, I made one decision; I wanted a little small part of Jake to be a part of me forever - to know that no matter what happened next, we would be joined together for all eternity. And… I couldn’t stand my mind-bending hunger anymore.
I succumbed to my desires.
I ripped his camouflage green shirt with avaricious and desirous hands, like a child desperate for a long awaited treat. I gladly sunk my teeth into the deep, purple wound, drawing the scarlet blood out with eager laps of my quick tongue. I knew Poochie would be proud of me and wouldn’t look down on my actions if he were here. I grin knowingly, imagining my Pokemon friend’s reaction as he surveyed me with sparkling, proud eyes as I tear a layer after layer of juicy muscle.
I never particularly cared for humanity, though I had protected them with everything I had and risked my life for their safety. Jake was an exception; his heart had been filled with boundless goodness, kindness and a surprising generosity that was not the norm among us disgusting and greedy humans. I know this with every part of my war-torn soul.
After all…
His heart was the last thing I tasted.
******
This is an alternate universe to my first one-shot 'A Life's Worth' and 'Within One's Reach' (which was a prequel of sorts to ALW).
Yeah, yeah...I know what you're thinking...
*wears anti-flame suit*
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