TRIPTYCH – part 1 – DELIVER ME FROM ME

Dark warmth, not heat, something different from heat, but a kind
of warmth, soft snuggling, not quite right warmth, but soft
snuggling warmth. The dark behind the eyelids, not quite right
warmth, dreams, visions… Curled in soft white blanketing
softness pain loss grief guilt a long gallery of dreams visions too
real too final too true to dismiss in the white dark not quite
warmth cocooning a loss too great for words, too great for
feelings… One by one the dead Morlocks pass by spitting
pissing tossing pieces of dripping flesh at him, at him, at the
traitor mass murderer slut bastard devil trash… One by one and
not a drop of saliva, not a drop of urine, not a drop of blood can
be ignored. All have to be felt one by one, no recourse, no
forgiveness, no pity, nothing but the dark blinding white
darkness. One by one they are accepted, not welcomed but
endured in the knowledge of scores to be paid forever and ever
amen. Humming, hymning in the ears traitor mass murderer slut
devil trash, a hymn of guilt and final damnation in a cold hell
that's stopped being so cold a while ago and now is only a dark
warmth cocooning the fading mind and numbed flesh. Dreams
visions nightmares of an uneasy death beating a slow tempo
fading fading to nothingness…
A breath, not willed but swelling nonetheless, a spike of icy heat
in the lungs, a new pain searing white hot cold, a face an image
an obsession – should be gone by now but isn't – blue eyes like
a winter noon, a wanting a longing in the bones, blue eyes not
unkind but unloving, hard body not unloved but uncaring, lost
gone not here not now not then, lost and lost and never said
goodbye, never said farewell. A grief like an ocean wave, burning
lungs, burning in searing ice… "You will stop that, you will stop if
I have to kill you, little whore! Little trash slut try that once more
and you'll pray you were dead!" punctuated by blows, hard hands
hard cane merciless slashing belt and not understanding what it
is that is wanted of him, desperate trying to please to stop the
blows to be approved of "Non, non, je vous en prie, will be good,
monseigneur°" "Don't call me that, you stupid putaine°!" Blows
blows blows angry blows "Non, je vous en prie, non plus!
Monsieur LeBeau°" But that is wrong too, nothing he does is
ever right, nothing he thinks is ever right, nothing he tries is ever
the right thing "What name, pour l'amour de Dieu° what name?!"
he screams and screams and the voice like the hammer of God
the hands raining blows "Pêre, je suis ton pêre°, to my eternal
shame I chose a piece of filth from the street and now I'll make
you into a man if I have to kill you to do it! Call me pêre, you
bastard!"… And the others come, one by one, monsters – but
you are a monster – killers – but you are a killer – evil – but you
are… NO! NONONONONO! – evil. Evil wrong devil trash,
worthless guinea pig lab rat lab toy men's toy… Mocking faces,
cold metal slabs, cruel hands, crueller bodies – NONONONO!
Burnburnburnburn… Explode.
*
"What?!" Wolverine's raspy voice rips the air in shreds
"Afterwards we left him there." Not quite shame, not quite
triumph, a good-riddance note in the arrogant voice.
"What?!" not just unbelieving, it's becoming to sound like a
declaration of war.
"He killed all these poor misfits." `not quite our kind' the voice is
implying – maybe unknowing – `not quite up to the mark, but
still…'
Logan takes a deep breath, and finds he has to take another,
breathing has become not easy. He looks at the people around
him and discovers that that's what they are to him now, people,
faces, voices, nothing important, the important thing – man, kid,
boy, baby, darling – is somewhere in ice and snow and dead.
This time the breath he takes seem to shatter his frame. "I'm
taking the jet." He says, rasps, growls, "He will be buried here." A
pause. Sneering now he says "I'm talking the jet. After he's
buried I'm out of here forever." How easy to say the words in
blinding rage, dark heat that consumes him like a black sun.
*
Speeding over white white white, nothing to see nothing to be
seen but the white icy desert. Desolation of the heart, desolation
of the land, desolation of the very soul and a name like a bell
ringing in white filled mind – Never called him Remy, never could
say the love words, never called by his darling name, never could
say the longing words, the mating words, the
I-will-make-it-come-out-glory words. All white, silent, dead,
deadly beautiful white terrain, `my love where are you? Now that I
can say the words in my mind, maybe even with my mouth, I lose
you, I turn my back for a moment and you are dead? No. Not
possible. Hiding here in the white, just hiding from the hurt'…
And he sees it, hours and hours of dead white and he sees it,
the circle of broken fire, the dead brown earth, and nothing – no
body, no messages, no sign but the circle of dead fire.
*
Dark warmth on a different scale, dark cold of a different surface,
too much life, too little life… `Where…?' Death should not be like
this, but maybe this is worse, maybe this is life. It hurts.
Everywhere. No help, no end, no mercy. Not death, death would
be kind and silent and quiet, but not metal ice. Or is it? Red
pupils on black open to the world and the world is fuzzy and cold
and unkind. Strapped to a slab in a lab… He knows what comes
next in this particular ditty and doesn't want it. A vision, a last
wisp of vision floats before his eyes behind his eyelids: blue
eyes, sharp claws… love. Dead, lost, forgone, safety, real
warmth, pitiless justice… He doesn't know he has croaked the
name like a whisper of prayer `Logan…' He can't see, he has
lost his eyes, dark and warm that makes him shiver shudder
sob, nothing can bring light to his heart. Pain. Everywhere No
end no mercy. And all the blood that was shed like a cocoon of
grief and guilt. No end. Defeat. "I kill them all. Remy kill them all."
Does he know he's saying this out loud? A hymn of despair an
anthem of death. Does he know he's saying this out loud?
*
The jet lands, Wolverine jumps out, but too late for smells, just
the acrid burn of the explosions and a hint of fear, too icy cold to
try and track any spoor. "Someone found you, kid." A whiff of fuel
"Helicopter. Damn! Cant track an helicopter. DAMN!!" Logan
screams at the white sky. But there is no recourse, no coming
back – run to Japan before it is too late – run for cover before the
kid gets to you – But the kid has got to you all right, Logan. Too
late to run and too late to save him.
*

The man is tall and strong, a bit weathered by age and his
profession, but still strong. He licks his lips, hart beating faster.
He looks at the wreck strapped to the steel table and licks his
lips again. `Will he know me again?' he thinks in a sort of
breathless anticipation `It would be nice if he knew me again'…
The man on the table moans faintly. Awake. The man's hand
caresses long legs, brushes fingernails on the inside of taut
thighs. The captive's head jerks. 'Oh, thank God he knows me' in
a sigh of relief, now it *will* be perfect. "Hello kid", the man says.
Silence. "Me again, yes. Missed me? Missed our little games? Of
course you did, kid. Never saw anyone react so beautifully to my
little pleasures. Saw the flares from you explosions. What did
you use?" Silence. "You'll tell me, not that I care, just for fun I'll
make you tell me, alright? Another little game. But after that…
*after* that, we'll play our best game ever." And the fingers crush
the balls like a vice. The body arches the mouths opens in a
silent scream back tense rising from the table straining against
the bonds. "Your eyes are bandaged to save them, almost burnt
by the glare, put something in them, but you'll see in a while,
believe me you'll see it all. Pity about that bandage now, I always
liked to see your red fire of pain. Made me hard." The man's
voice is soft, like a caress, creating swirling eddies of pain and
shame in the tired mind, but nothing nothing nothing can
compare to the maelstrom of grief sucking at the very soul until
nothing is left but the need to obliterate himself, to stop the
ruthless unbearable sorrow that devours his being. "Tak' your
pleasure, colonel" he whispers tonelessly. The man opens his
eyes wide at his and lets go. Steps near the white exposed
throat and grabs it "You accept your fate, then?" he asks, but he's
squeezing too hard and the body on the slab is unconscious
again.
"Rape him, all of you." The man orders his troops.
"Why, sir? He won't even know."
"When he wakes up he will."
*
`Where is he? Where? Bloody Cajun, trust him to do a
disappearing act on me when I need to find him!' In the jet Logan
growls and mutter while flying ever-widening circles. `I'll never
find him, never always too late to do something… Why did I run
away from him?' Where to look, it's all dead white and freezing,
he can't have moved gone far… Who took him? A growl that
seem to start from his feet, low and furious, the beast slavers
wants blood wants death wants… Like an arrow to the target a
clear thought that cannot be denied `If the beast takes over we're
both dead and for nothing. Think Logan think be human logical
and think!' The beast doesn't want to go down, the beast wants
to go back and howl its pain in the spilling guts of Rogue,
Warren, Scott… But Remy, boy, kid, baby, darling Cajun that
used to be a spite word and has become a song of a tsunami
love. The remembered image steadies him. `There are bases
here, people, scientists and military' but he doesn't know where
they are `Have to ask the professor…' NO! another snarl of
hatred `yes' thinks the human in the grip of an icy rage that
nothing can deflect now `yes, let the beast howl to perdition. If I
ask they will tell me'. All the same it's not easy to turn on the
communicator, like wading through molasses each movement
of the arm and hand is so difficult, but the icy rage cannot be
stopped or slowed. He doesn't recognise his own voice when he
snaps "Give me the coordinates to all known bases here. Now."
*
Dark pain dark warmth dark awakening to dark existence – when
will it end when when? – He remembers the colonel. The
colonel was the man who pushed him into escaping the brothel
and ending up in Jean Luc stern arms. He wants to love his
father so much, but he never measures up, no matter what he
does he never measures up so he is thrown away, a bad catch,
a poisonous fish a worthless inadequate nothing devil trash
whore… But if the pain is strong enough if the shame is strong
enough maybe it will drown the ghosts spitting pissing throwing
pieces of living blood dropping flesh on his soul, if the pain is
strong enough if the shame is strong enough maybe it will give
him release from his unending grief. His body is so battered he
can't feel it anymore, the ghosts of tearing cocks the ghosts of
bruising hands and teeth are not enough to annihilate him. He
almost wishes for the colonel's games to begin, maybe maybe
he will lose himself in the horror and end this throat constricting
grief. His mind a dark churning whirlpool of self loathing he waits
for deliverance.
"Hello, good morning, I see you're awake. Let's take this
bandage off, pretty whore, I really want to see your eyes." Nothing
the man ever does is kind, but then who has ever been kind to
him? Not that he deserves kindness – evil traitor mass murderer
slut bastard devil trash – "Now we play, mmm? Our favourite
game, what do you say? Nothing? Silence is yes, a scream is
no, not that it will serve you, you know the rules. Let's see if my
men fucked you properly, child, I wouldn't want you in need of
some hot cock up your ass, not now." Unkind fingers probe him,
he almost doesn't feel it, almost, but that's just the start of the
game. "Now, could have been better, couldn't it? But no matter,
we'll make do with what we have, I'll have to reprimand my little
hungry soldiers, next time they'll do you better. So…" A slap
slamming his face on the table, another, another… What got to
him as a child was the clinical precision of the man's actions.
He slaps, stops, examines his works and slaps again. He
seems to measuring the bruises, the reddening of the skin, like
a scientist. – But that's what you are, isn't it? Lab rat lab trash
let's see what *this* makes him do – but now that's nothing, it
doesn't stop the images, the visions the dreams nightmares that
never end. "Right, you're not much fun, are you? I wonder what
happened to you… No, not really, couldn't care less. Now open
wide, little whore, I saved it for you." The golden stream is hot
and stinking it burns eyes and the tender mucous membrane of
the mouth. Has he really opened his mouth? Is he really still
obeying orders unthinking willing ready to do anything to be
approved of? He chokes a bit and then chokes helplessly on the
hard cock being shoved into his mouth. "You're not so much fun
anymore, you know what it does to me, makes me want to
*make* you fun, whore. Now service me." Same old words same
old contempt not enough to make him react. Choking is good, no
air no breath no life no visions. He doesn't fight the huge shaft in
his mouth and down his inflamed throat. Choking is good…
*
Wolverine is almost totally Logan by the time he has the
coordinates he needs. The beast has nothing to offer to this
all-consuming need to find the beloved prey. The beast is almost
no more, just a dark flame of rage deep in the guts that becomes
frozen hatred in the mind. Scott would gape to see Logan so
coldly flying over targets, landing, methodically sniffing and
getting on the jet again to the next target, and the next and the
next. Logan finds he has to shut his mind to the thoughts of what
might be happening to Remy, just the name like a bell in his
heart no thoughts of happenings no thoughts of death or life
saving care just Remy Remy Remy Remy Remy Remy Remy
Remy Remy Remy….
*
There are periods of unconsciousness but the visions never let
go of his mind, periods of violence, but he is unconscious so the
body only murmurs of the ghosts of violence, the man is furious
– that is good make him lose control and destroy the traitor
mass murderer slut bastard devil trash – on his involuntarily
heaving body the bites rending flesh, the blows bruising flesh,
the red hot cock forcing itself into burning inflamed openings, but
nothing makes the visions the dreams the nightmares stop. "Oh,
well, can't hold it anymore, here it comes `cherie'°." Pincers on
his nose and the body breathes through the mouth. "Pretty" the
man breathes and pulls down his trousers. Positioning himself
over the gaping mouth he releases his shit with a sigh of
pleasure "Eat, boy, get fat on it" he says thickly as the double
urge hits him. Remy LeBeau, thief, mutant, X-man, traitor, mass
murderer, slut, bastard, devil, trash, finds this final humiliation
fitting and chooses not to swallow so the thick greasy turds fill
his mouth and throat blocking air. An image – it *won't* be
denied – blue eyes not unkind but unloving fill his mind. If this is
death it's fitting and welcome, the brain slows down, no visions
no dreams, fitting and welcome, fading fading into white
nothingness…
And a scream a shower of meat and guts frantic fingers
scooping out shit from his mouth a neverending howl "Live live
live live live…!" Gunshots and screams. Red death from raging
eyes invisible death from a raging mind. "Slice his bonds,
Wolverine!" a voice like a whip `Scott?' and a mind blinding howl
"HE'S NOT BOUND!!" She never uses this voice in the mansion,
she doesn't use in a fight, this is the voice of Death "Take him
out, NOW!" this is the voice that *cannot* be disobeyed with the
full force of her mind to push it into every hook and cranny of the
brain. Logan grabs him – mind fading unbelieving strong arms
hard body not unloved but uncaring – and runs to the jet. The
others are beside him in seconds. "We'll take him home" says
the voice of the goddess of Death. "You follow." And the other
unrecognisable voice answers unafraid "Fuck the jet, come with
us, take him with us."
Logan is already on the other jet, crushing to his chest the
battered body of his one reason to breathe. "What?!" he rasps
desperate to a murmur only his ears can hear, but the other is
too far gone to understand. Lost in a delirium of visions Remy
babbles softly "Deliver me from me, oh mon Dieu°, deliver me
from me…."
"As fast as you can, Scott, but steady. We're going home."
*
TRANSLATION:
° I beg you – my lord
° whore
°I beg you not any more mister LeBeau
° For the love of God
° father, I am your father
° dear only feminine
°Oh, my God

TBC?