Who: Kitane -> Helena What: After party consequences Where: Passages -> Hels Gotham Penthouse When: Directly after leaving the party Warnings/Rating: Oh the feels. Self inflicted injury. Mentions of gory violence.
There was that half second of knowledge that they were back together again, falling out of the door to Kitane's side and her knees hit the floor, bright spikes of discomfort radiating up her thighs. Reconnection was painful, like spikes still glowing from the blacksmith's forge were shoved into her brain. Was this what it was like to die? Head wreathed in sharp edged, thick wedged agony? For all those times when Helena might have complained about Kitane, might have wanted Morgan back instead of the little raven-haired girl, she was no Tristan, and it was a shock to feel something like what she had felt with her.
It was in that second where Helena reeled away that the full realization of her actions settled on Kitane. A ragged breath was drawn in, both hands pressing to bare temples before the scream climbed out of her belly, tore up her throat, and out of her mouth like a night-bent bat on fire out of a cave. The screaming didn't stop, couldn't stop, only paused long enough for her to vomit on the worn carpet, acid burning already aching throat. She'd done -- she'd done -- she'd done something horrible. So horrible she couldn't think about it, and every time she thought back to the bench, the forest, to blood and the snap-snap-snap-crackle-pop of bone and tendon, she only wailed louder, like a siren heralding her own personal emergency.
Her thoughts spun and every time they seemed to come close to the truth on their chaotic axis, she veered violently away, screaming so loud that it was impossible to think, impossible to believe that anything but torture was happening to her. Not even Helena could think, but then she did the one thing she thought she could do, the one thing she thought she might help, and seized control. It was never something she liked doing, hated the feeling it gave her, the taking of something that didn't belong to her until they were on her side of the door. The scream died in her throat, but she could feel bile rising again, her stomach muscles jerking. It was a mad scramble backwards, on her palms and ass and feet to get her key in the door and onto her side.
Deprived of being able to scream aloud, Kitane's shrieks continued in her mind as she fell across. Slippery, slick floor under her palms -- the penthouse in Gotham, and there was no way that Helena could force her across again and try to drag her back through the door. No. She didn't want to wrest control from her again, but there was no stopping the screaming in her mind, the brief flashes of images that she got.
It was her turn to do a frantic stumble to her feet, her knees hitting the ground before she finally crawled into the bathroom, palms slapping loud on the floor before she made her sacrifice to the porcelain goddess. Kitane -- Kitane had done -- and what had she done? She knew, as her face became wet from frustration and fear leaking from her eyes, what she had done. What she'd been. Her stomach heaved again, stomach muscles protesting such rough treatment with dull aches.
It was unspeakable. And she knew exactly how she'd gotten there, knew how she felt now, like a hollowed out gourd going (bat shit) crazy. It wasn't something she could tell Bruce about, not even Selina who she still confided in like she was her mom, not Steph or Dami or even Dick who would do his best to make her laugh as if horror wasn't creeping up her spine and threatening to strangle her.
And still Kitane was screaming, piercing like a raptor's call in her mind. It was too loud for her to shut out, too sharp, too hard, too fucking much. Shaking hands pushed her away from the toilet. (Shaking hands? All of her was shaking, vibrating like she was on the edge of an earthquake or coming down from adrenaline over-rush, jittery and directionless.) Air was dragged into her lungs too frequently, yet it didn't feel like that at all, felt like someone had reached into her chest and was squeeze-squeeze-squeezing her heart to see if she could keep on living. Sucker punch to her gut breathless, her lips went numb as trembling fingers curled around the marble washbasin. Marble. Wasn't that fucking ironic? A sob tried to work itself free, only she caught the sound, swallowed it down as fresh warmth poured down her cheeks.
Her head thunked against it, cool seeping into her skin, but that brief connection had a bright spark of pain, enough to silence Kitane for a moment, to still the toilet-flush swirl of her own thoughts. She did it again, just for the relief it brought however temporary. Only now Kitane was screaming louder and the next smack didn't stop her at all, only gave rise to more volume. Sucking in a deep preparatory breath, (she could do this) her fingers tightened around the curved bowl and she slammed forward into it. Pop goes the weasel, bright blood spatter on white.
It worked, success was hers. Blessed silence. Even as the world went blurry and slanty, as it seemed to be moving, Helena smiled. Silence. Calm. Darkness, where she lived and breathed, where her family existed as bright beacons of light and hope that she couldn't see as she slid down to lonely bottom.
An hour later, her cleaning lady arrived. Helena was still in the bathroom, vomit in the toilet, blood on the floor and the marble sink, and completely unresponsive. A frantic call to 911 was placed, and ambulances came, sirens going ree-ohh ree-ohh, lights spinning like wild thoughts to take her to the nearest hospital.