by Mandelarae
My world?
You're curious about my world.
Ri-ight.
You're sure you want to know?
Absolutely, positively sure?
Oh, fine.
It's kinda small.
The window choking whatever traces of sunlight enter the room.
Door, always barred.
My small world.
Yet all mine.
Bleak, my life.
Just like this room.
Passing before my eyes like a dark, tangible entity.
Fleeing...
Escaping...
Bidding a last, remorseful farewell.
Feelings?
I have no emotions.
A mere robot, activated by a higher power.
Humor.
What is that?
Fear?
I so not know that.
Anger.
Maybe...
My only emotion.
Suppressed in the depths of my heart.
Fury unshed.
Insanity...
Perhaps...
The favorite phase of my life.
My...soul?
You're looking for my soul?
I sold mine to Satan long ago.
The price was cheap.
So disgustingly cheap.
Cigarettes.
Drugs.
Liquor.
Sex.
A soul for an identity.
Ah, but what a glorious identity.
Leading a wonderful, hedonistic lifestyle.
You noticed.
My wrists.
My beautiful handiwork.
Yes, I have slashed them.
So many times.
Nirvana.
Locking myself into the bathroom.
Every single day.
A joint in one hand.
A pack of cigarettes in the other.
A bottle of Heineken in the pocket of my leather jacket.
One, smooth puff on the joint.
Then, the cigarette.
And I get myself drunk.
But this time.
One fateful day.
Was different.
From all the other days.
That day...
I planned to put a stopper to my life.
Indefinitely.
I passed out.
Long, lithe, nimble hands
Clutching the round white porcelain rim of the toilet bowl
As soon as I am in a remotely conscious state
I take out the fateful murder weapon.
A sharp razor blade.
Galvanized steel slowly kissing and dissecting flesh.
Tender, pure, pale white flesh.
Only defiled by previous slash scars.
Running from the arm to the wrist.
One cut.
A slow excruciating one.
Always the hardest and most painful part.
But I am used to it.
Another cut.
Blood trickles down my arm.
Staining my clothes.
Oozing down the pristine tiled white bathroom floor.
The next wrist
Bearing the scars of a life poorly spent.
I take one last look at the reflection in the vanity mirror.
That's not me.
Painful reality smacks me in the face.
Hard.
And the last thing I see is blood.
Blood.
And more blood.
Nothing more...
And Satan laughing at me.
Beckoning to me...
Telling me to join him in hell.
Tempting me.
Luring me.
Sucking my physical being
Into the mirror.
He grabs my bleeding hands.
And licks them.
And drags me into the mirror.
Deeper and deeper
Into the depths of his fiery domain.
The intense oven-like heat only reminds me of where I am.
He-Lucifer, deserts me.
My skin...
Burning.
The ambience full of countless tortured souls,
Seeking redemption.
A hopeless dream.
A pointless aim.
A small pool at my feet intrigues me.
It's of a rich, gold color.
I bend over and touch it.
The viscous, brilliant liquid.
Cool to the touch.
Satisfying the most burnt tongue in hell.
As it sifts slowly through my fingers,
It turns to blood.
Dark red.
A voice called for me.
A voice I knew all too well.
I recognized it.
A voice from my past.
The pool bubbled.
Sputtered.
In a tone, sinister, decadent,
Void of all former cheerfulness.
The pool,
Whispering...
Almost sneering.
"Dorothy...airen...Dorothy..."
I want to scream.
But I can't.
A hand...
Bloodied.
Reaches up to cover it before I can do so.
My eyes bug out as I see whose hand it is.
The owner's head and torso are now visible.
Caked in blood.
His neck giving indications of how he had died.
Rope marks strung like a necklace
All around his neck.
As he stands up, to my height,
All blood washes off his body.
His spectacular body.
Quatre Raberba Winner leans his head towards me...
His shining blue eyes now glazed with red.
Red...
A dominant color.
And he whispers...
"Welcome to hell, Dorothy Catalonia."
And I scream.
Loudly.
As he removes his hand from mouth,
Takes my hand,
And drags me into the pool.
Into its bloody eddies.
I'm dead.
In hell.
The young woman briefly stopped her soliloquy and looked up at the man standing a few feet away from her, leaning heavily against the door, balancing his weight on one muscular leg, his arms folded across his chest. Yes, he was still listening, hanging on to every single word.
"And then?" he pressed on.
"Don't rush me," she snapped, then resumed.
I wake up.
In an asylum.
My morbid life.
Pathetic.
Do I regret doing so?
No.
It was amazing.
Life.
Ah, but a commodity.
And a smile of utter satisfaction played across the lips of the 26-year old girl. She had told her story. Now, it was time to die.
The man saw the look in her eye, but he never flinched. He just stared back at her, with emotionless jade-green eyes. The woman in front of him...that wasn't the Dorothy he knew. So pale, so thin. Once thick, healthy hair framed her face like limp blonde spaghetti. The deep, war-hungry, ice-blue eyes seemed vacant. Unfeeling. Bland. The gymnast's physique frail, fragile. Brittle. The fair-complexioned face blanched to the extent that it resembled sour milk. He shook his head soberly.
"Anything else?" he asked, still in awe at her transfiguration over the past month. Ever since her husband, Quatre, died.Rather, killed himself. Although whatever emotion flickered in his eyes was admirably disguised.
"I don't think so. Send everyone my regards."
The funny thing was, she was so...calm. To the point that it was scary. Like she wasn't really clinically insane. If that was the case, Trowa Barton thought, she was a damn fine actress.
"Papers?" he queried.
There was a long pause as Dorothy slowly paced the floor, fear and unease mirroring against the windowpane as she softly stroked her reflection.
"All with Lady Une. It states that all Quatre's and my money and property are to be distributed among all of you." She met his wandering gaze. "You know who I mean."
Trowa nodded. "Then I'll be going now."
He rapped sharply on the door so the guards would let him out.
But something out of the ordinary caught his attention and made him turned around.
The all-too-familiar sound...the reloading of a gun.
"Dorothy, don't do something you'll regret," he pleaded, but a sharp ache in his heart knew that all efforts to stop Dorothy Catalonia-Winner-Barton from doing something she had set her mind to were futile.
Her eyes flashed and narrowed dangerously, and a feral smile crept across lips, one hand still wrapped around the revolver.
"Oh I don't regret this," Dorothy replied, the tone menacing and sinister.
Trowa grasped for the right words. Quatre had begged him to take care of her. He didn't know the right words then, and he certainly didn't know them now.
//"Trowa...marry Dorothy. You're the best one to give her comfort..." Quatre whispered ruefully.
"Quatre, you're a FATHER, dammit! Why are you killing yourself? Is that the ZERO system talking?" Trowa demanded, shaking Quatre by his shirt collar.
"I'm sane, Trowa. Perfectly sane. Let me die in peace. I beg of you, Trowa. Take care of my wife. Comfort her. Keep her out of harm's way." He peered into the green eyes, in them seeing his own blue orbs. "Give a dying man his last wish."
Trowa exhaled. Why was he so weak? Letting Quatre die? Just like that? His best freind, for Chrissake! But he knew that there was nothing else he could do.
"One wish fulfilled, Quatre," Trowa promised, inching towards the door.
"Oh, and Trowa?"
"What?"
"Tell Dorothy...when the time is right... that I'm saving her a place in hell by my side."
Trowa gave him a small, almost imperceptible, smile. And he saluted his friend. "Ryoukai."
And as Trowa locked the door and walked away from it, he could hear Quatre tightening the noose around his neck.//
"Dorothy! Stop it! I...I...I love you!" Trowa said desperately.
Dorothy raised an eyebrow. She dropped the revolver onto the bed and sauntered over to him, and gently placed her lips on his.
"Treasure that, airen. Now, I must go." She picked up the revolver. "Get out. I don't want you to be in this room when I die."
"Wait, Dorothy," Trowa said, his hand already on the doorknob. "There's something Quatre said before he died. He told me to tell you this at an appropriate time. And now is as good a time as any. He said...he said that he's saving you a place in hell by his side."
Dorothy grinned. "Go on. I'm to fulfill my destiny. I've put this off for far too long."
Trowa nodded. "I understand."
He left the room, nodded to the guard, and left, feigning nonchalance. He was within a few feet of the door when he heard the gunshot, and the sound of a body dropping to the ground.
Trowa sighed. "Aishiteru, Dorothy Winner-Barton. Rest in peace."
And he blended in with the crowd who pushed and jostled him in order to gain entry into Dorothy's deathroom.
Only now did he understand the true meaning and depth of Quatre's last words.