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As anyone who's been reading my fic for a while knows, now and then I write something really dark and nasty and hate myself but I can't stop myself either because once the idea comes into my head, it's there.
This is a deathfic (I never do them) and it's hopelessly angsty (I love happy endings) and it's too late to blame it on Halloween...
No spoilers, 380 words.
Sticky, Sweet, and Red
Once upon a time, a long time ago, at least a month, though time's stopped mattering now, Carlton had gone home to find a pineapple outside his door, yellow and brown, bedizened by a bright red bow. He'd taken it inside and, knowing who it was from even without the courtesy of a note, had gone over it carefully with a magnifying glass, looking for suspicious holes where mind-altering drugs might have been injected. He'd seen Dr. No six times. He knew about poisoned fruit.
Finding none, and being raised to believe that wasting food put feet on a slippery path leading to the flames of Hell and eternal damnation, he'd decided to eat it, even if pineapples had never ranked high on his favorite fruit list. Too acidic, too searching, too much trouble.
The only way to get into it was with a knife, the spilling juice finding and punishing every tiny nick on his hands, every paper cut, every hangnail.
After twenty minutes of struggling, the pineapple lay naked, mangled, bleeding juice, ready to eat.
And his hands were red. Red and sticky and that hot, tacky mess on them had never gone away, no matter how many times he'd washed and scrubbed and --
They talk when they think he's not listening (he is. It's never quiet in his head now. The screaming stops sometimes, but the begging for mercy, for this to end, to stop never does) and he hears words that make no sense -- undue stress, latent homophobia, divorce, heavy workload, the Sinclair case -- all running together, the way the beads from a necklace would run across a tiled floor if the thread holding them in a curve around a tanned throat were cut.
He remembers the Sinclair case. They all do. No one would ever forget it. They'd been so close to saving the children, but something -- there'd been a -- Okay, he's forgotten why they'd gotten there just too late, but it's probably not important.
His mouth's dry and he reaches for the paper cup of water but the cuffs stop him. He frowns. Cuffs?
They're making a lot of fuss over one pineapple, even if he had gotten sick of the smell when it rotted and dumped it in the trash.
This is a deathfic (I never do them) and it's hopelessly angsty (I love happy endings) and it's too late to blame it on Halloween...
No spoilers, 380 words.
Sticky, Sweet, and Red
Once upon a time, a long time ago, at least a month, though time's stopped mattering now, Carlton had gone home to find a pineapple outside his door, yellow and brown, bedizened by a bright red bow. He'd taken it inside and, knowing who it was from even without the courtesy of a note, had gone over it carefully with a magnifying glass, looking for suspicious holes where mind-altering drugs might have been injected. He'd seen Dr. No six times. He knew about poisoned fruit.
Finding none, and being raised to believe that wasting food put feet on a slippery path leading to the flames of Hell and eternal damnation, he'd decided to eat it, even if pineapples had never ranked high on his favorite fruit list. Too acidic, too searching, too much trouble.
The only way to get into it was with a knife, the spilling juice finding and punishing every tiny nick on his hands, every paper cut, every hangnail.
After twenty minutes of struggling, the pineapple lay naked, mangled, bleeding juice, ready to eat.
And his hands were red. Red and sticky and that hot, tacky mess on them had never gone away, no matter how many times he'd washed and scrubbed and --
They talk when they think he's not listening (he is. It's never quiet in his head now. The screaming stops sometimes, but the begging for mercy, for this to end, to stop never does) and he hears words that make no sense -- undue stress, latent homophobia, divorce, heavy workload, the Sinclair case -- all running together, the way the beads from a necklace would run across a tiled floor if the thread holding them in a curve around a tanned throat were cut.
He remembers the Sinclair case. They all do. No one would ever forget it. They'd been so close to saving the children, but something -- there'd been a -- Okay, he's forgotten why they'd gotten there just too late, but it's probably not important.
His mouth's dry and he reaches for the paper cup of water but the cuffs stop him. He frowns. Cuffs?
They're making a lot of fuss over one pineapple, even if he had gotten sick of the smell when it rotted and dumped it in the trash.
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Poor Lassie....
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Thank you for the kind feedback!
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