Chapter 8 - Scarred
By The Wandering Englishman
"He’s rejecting the treatment."
"No, he’s not. This was expected."
Thewhite coated man held the struggling youth down to the table as his associateinjected the vial into the boys arm; the blue eyes instantly snapping open asthe drug took effect.
"Leave him." The dark haired man ordered asthe now calm youth rolled from the bench, hitting the floor with a cold thud.
"Keep recording. Call me when he wakes."
"Come again?" Squall asked, reaching downto hold the now pale Laguna, hoping that the older man didn’t pass out in thesnow.
Laguna looked up, green eyes holding iceblue in wide bewilderment. He looked down a moment, scooping up the ring beforeshaking his head, trying to remove the unnerving gaze the young man had.
"It’s nothing. Forget it. "
"Laguna, can I ask you something?"
"Sure, shoot." He replied, not really sureif he wanted to hear now what his companion had to say.
"Do you mind…you know…me liking Seifer?"Squall asked, a look of hope and nervousness crossing the usually stoic face ofthe youth as he helped the older man to his feet. Laguna dusted the powder snowfrom his jacket before sighing; looking into the younger mans eyes.
"Not at all, Squall. I’m happy you’ve foundsomeone."
"So it doesn’t bother you then..?"
"You just looked so pale…almost sad…I wasjust wondering."
"No, no…it’s fine, really. I’m happy you’vefound someone. "
As Laguna smiled, Squall watched the worldtear.
He tried to keep it out. Clamping his handsover his ears as if to shutout the screams that invaded his mind. He screamedalong with them, the pain of a thousand deaths playing over behind his eyes sovividly it made him ill.
He tried to will his eyes open, though theimages that pounded his head were more welcome than the blinding flashes ofwhite that was his world. He welcomed the lesser of the two evils as he crawledtoward what he thought was the door, searching for some means of escape. Evenblinded, he had been trained to be able to evade and escape any situation.
Memories of a thousand fresh wounds filledthe little darkness in his fevered recollections; the smell of burning fleshand fresh blood crowding his senses. These were what he had done. He knew thefaces of all the dead. He knew the names.
He stood in the middle of the field, dreamlike in its surroundings. It was empty, aside from the wild flowers that seemedto grow in abundance here. The sun shone in the peace that existed here. Not a carein the world.
He blinked, and the world turned. The skiesdarkened, and crimson flooded over the dead field; the only things now growingwere the ruins of a long dead civilisation. The static sounds of a long endedwar filled his ears as he clutched his weapon at his side and ran.
His boots crunched the soil below, passingmany fallen pillars and stones; thunder echoing overhead, threatening to spillonto the surface.
A noise, not his own.
The quiet his friend.
Find the origin. It’s there…
The clang of metal on stone. The spark. Thecrack of bone and flesh being severed. The thud and crackle of somethingrolling on the cobbles. The splat of something heavy landing in some thickliquid.
The eyes still closed, putting together themental picture of what happened. Brow’s knitting tightly together, thinking onall the possibilities.
His reflexes are sharp. Honed by years oftraining. He was built for this. Conditioned for this. Destined forthis. Death was what he was meant to do.
He opened his eyes, looking to the crimsonpooled at his feet. Lifting his gaze to the origin of the viscous liquid. Allthe blood drained from his face as he stumbled backwards.
Not what you expected…
He tripped on something and he fellbackwards, landing on the palms of his hands, the leather of his pantssqueaking against the stones.
What have you done?
The lifeless eyes of the blonde childstared up at him, unseeing. Terror and adrenaline flooded through him asrealisation dawned on what he had done. He wanted to scream, but no sound cameout. He wanted to run, but his legs didn’t work.
The clouds parted, the first rays of lightshining on the severed head, reminding him of what he’d just done.
The first scar.
He cried, and the world cried silently withhim. Lowering his head, he closed his eyes, unable to remove the picture of themurdered boy from his mind. He could have been no more than 10. His whole lifein front of him…and he had struck, with no warning…without even looking,reflexively cutting effortlessly through the youth without so much as a thoughtas to who or what is was.
His head lifted up, his chin being squeezedforcefully as if someone were lifting it. But as he gazed over the remains ofthe field before him, he saw no one.
Without much warning, something pressed tohis lips, warm and soft and caring. A kiss. He parted his mouth to let theinvisible intruder welcome embrace, anything to take his mind of the murder.
The warmth was suddenly inside his mouth,filling him with hope and sorrow at the same time. As if taking his fear andforgiving him. He kissed back, hard and soft at the same time. Begging, yetsubmitting as he poured his heart and soul into it.
And then the world fell black.
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