Re: Warnings: Graphic content/sexual violence
Louis had been riding out the flood of memories acceptably until the next one came along, worrying more about his siblings and about Evan than what he might see. He never could have anticipated what came next, not until he recognized the voice, and began to feel the slickslide of blood and the drag of a knife and oh god -
The memory seemed to sink into his very skin, and it wouldn't stop. That was his sister, under and around this man whose head he was inside, his sister he was violating, someone he cared for, and there wasn't even guilt, just hurting her, and hurting her, and panicking only for himself when it was over, panicking for his own skin, then leaving her behind. Fucking her while she cried, and he felt it. Fingers in her wounds, and he felt it, warm flesh and muscle and blood, christ, and there was no escaping it, it just kept going.
He didn't even realize when the memory had ended, didn't realize he'd dug his fingers into his scalp. He saw black and stars, heels of his hands pressed tight into his eyes because he didn't want to see anymore.
He tipped forward, stumbled to his feet, and just made it in the sink in time to throw up, head bent under the tap. He held the edge of the counter, arms shaking. He would never get it out of his head. Never. He was still in it. It would live there forever, what it felt like to be the man who had raped his sister, cut her, put his fingers into her wounds and liked it, liked it.
He held taut like that for a moment, and then the tension in his body slowly eased, heels lowering back toward the floor, weight sinking against the counter again. He reached across and flicked the faucet with fingers still trembling from adrenaline, fear, disgust, and madness. He slid his head under the rush of water from the tap, washing his skin clean, letting the water slick his hair back, wet and dark, matting his curls down, long trails running down his back beneath his shirt. He turned his mouth to the water and spat, cleaning his mouth of that terrible taste, and took another slow breath.
He was dizzy, which he'd noticed from the background, but feeling it this intimately was another thing entirely. He waited to be sure there was no chance he would be sick again, then put his hands under the faucet and cupped water, dashing it into his face, then pulled it to his mouth for a long swallow.
Finally, finally, when he felt a little cleaner, he straightened with the counter for support, running his hand through his hair, flicking water droplets behind from his long fingers. He took a steady breath.
He kept his hands on the counter, shut off the water, and turned, resting his hips back against the edge, looking out into the apartment. Well, it wasn't going to get any worse than that. He'd lived a long time, fought in wars and seen the sort of things men did to women, to other men. The memory disgusted him to his core, but didn't shake him to it.
Loki stood still, and he waited, shutting his eyes against the dizziness, pinching the bridge of his nose. He would wait for this to stop. Then he would decide what his next move ought to be.