Successor (4 of 4)
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When all was said and done, it was as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from her. And indeed, it had quite literally, been lifted from her.
The floors of the bathroom were vividly red, a stark contrast against the sterile white tiles.
A mangled lump of flesh, so thoroughly minced lay in a trash bag.
She let out an uneven breath, willing her body to calm, forcing her hands to steady even as she pierced her own flesh.
Even after years of working the needle, the sutured in that moment were uneven and ugly. A disgrace. As was the pile of flesh.
The knife lay some feet away. She had discarded it after carving into her own flesh and tearing out the writhing mass from within.
When she understood what odd ailment had overtaken her, she had been horrified, and very nearly gave in to nausea.
The indignant tears she forced away and she had, while the fire still burned fierce, gone out and returned with the cold metallic knife clutched in feverish hands.
Excruciating was an understatement. The pain as she was cut open was enough to pass out to, but she bit her tongue hard and pulled the knife across to rend her flesh, ignoring the thick coppery scent and fluids, the burning pain that flashed and ached her whole body.
She would not stand for a parasite to leech off of her. Never for something that shared anything with that monster, that abomination that against all sense of the word, was human.
NEVER.
She had flung the sickly mass away from her, reveling in the sickening crack as it made contact with the floor. Her knife she buried into it over, and over, and over again, screaming through her teeth and only stopping when her head grew light from the blood loss.
Hence where she lay now, patching herself up.
She lay there to rest and catch her brief.
Cleaning herself up, she wiped away the blood and discarded of the tissues in the already occupied trash bag. Garbage was all it was.
She disinfected, cleaned, and finally dressed herself in clean clothes again.
Never.
She was stained, dirty, defiled. She was wounded, branded.
But she was a Canterbury.
She faltered as she stepped back into the hospital room.
But sometimes--
Ken lay there, face serene in sleep, chest rising and falling in soft shallow breaths, safe from the horrors of the world.
--she wished she wasn't alone.
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