Alexandria "Circe" Wilkes-Gibbon (ophic_bloodlust) wrote in light_of_may, @ 2010-07-20 16:32:00 |
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Entry tags: | #flashback, #solo, 2009-07-20 |
I'll wash my bloody hands and we'll start a new life
Who: Circe, Ulysses (NPC)
Where: The Gibbon House, London
When: October 2003
What: A brief snapshot into the reasons behind Circe's madness.
Circe turned the rings on her left ring finger around and around. She had lost some weight since the wedding and the rings were loose enough to spin idly. She sat on an unmade bed, her hair uncombed from last night. A few fresh wounds on her shoulder marred her otherwise smooth skin. She heard the sounds of heavy footfall downstairs. Her husband had never been a quiet man. Always tumbling off somewhere, making his presence known like the giant from Jack in the Beanstalk. All he needed to yell was Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum. Circe pressed her knuckles against her lips and kept twisting her rings around, twisting, twisting.
His breath was heavy and warm on her neck. They had lost his knife somewhere between the sheets. It didn’t matter. Blood dripped from fresh cuts on her shoulder he had made with the blade that was now lost in her bed. Her white sheets were stained with blood - both his and hers. She’d taken as much as she’d dared from him, making sure her poisoned fangs stayed in check the whole time. His fingers found her face and then her lips, wiping the blood from them gently. His blood. She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch as he caressed her face, his fingers dancing on her skin.
She had fallen in love with his easy manner and the smile that sprang to his face when he looked at her. She had fallen in love with his eyes and the way they saw into her instead of at her. She had fallen in love with him on the day they both had their knives at each other’s throats. And, yet, she had gone and married someone else.
Circe felt his arms go around her as he rolled and brought her with him. She ended up on top of him, feeling his heartbeat underneath his skin; their breaths one, united inhale-and-exhale motion. She ran her fingers over the little scars on his chest - the ones she had given him - and looked into his blue eyes. She wondered how they could have eyes so alike, her two men, when one she loved and the other she loathed. Indeed, it was only when she looked into Antonin’s eyes that she could remember who she used to be before the madness had come and she had lost her mind. Ulysses had destroyed her, everyone knew, but no one knew how. How the fierce and proud lamia had lost her strength and her sanity to such a man.
Circe twisted her rings on her finger as he opened the door to their bedroom. She sat on their bed, twisting her engagement ring and wedding ring around and around. Her tail filled most of their bed, large as it was. He took a quick look at her before setting his suitcase down by the door that led to the bathroom. He began to unwind the scarf around his neck. Circe sat watching, and twisting. Her husband spoke first. “Back to your human form. You’re not much use to me like that.”
She obliged, letting her tail shrink back and her weak, useless legs take their place. She sat sideways, one leg under the other and both bent at almost 45-degree angles. Circe watched and twisted as her husband removed his traveling clothes and stripped down to his undershirt and pants. It took him a while before he turned his attention to her and tsked. “What happened to your shoulder?”
“Cat.”
“Was the cat holding a knife?” Ulysses snorted, coming up to her to inspect the wounds. Four short and concise cuts, not too deep but enough to have drawn blood. “These are clean, not claws.”
“Cat,” Circe repeated, still twisting her rings about her finger. She saw his hand coming, but made no move to avoid it. His backhand caught her well in her cheek and she fell backwards onto the bed, her hair tangling behind her head. A flash of silver and then there was a knife against her cheek.
Ulysses sighed. “Since when have you been lying to me, pet? You break my heart when you lie,” he complained in tones that clearly conveyed no such thing happened when she lied. “Now, tell me, what gave you those wounds?”
Circe couldn’t contain the laughter that bubbled in her throat and she let out a long laugh. “Cut me, why don’t you?” she whispered at him, looking at him with contempt. “I dare you to cut my face open.”
He wouldn’t. She knew. And he knew that she knew. No matter what grief or pretend grief Circe may have caused her husband, he would never leave marks on such a vital part of his collection. After all, Ulysses Gibbon was nothing if not a collecting man and his wife just another part of that expansive set. That was the reason he was truly upset over the wounds. They could scar and then her value as a precious object would drop. It concerned him only to that extent. Ulysses chuckled. “Ah, pet, you’ve become quite...difficult. Very well, let me tend to your wounds,” he said, almost soothingly.
Circe sat up as he helped her to a sitting position. Her hands resumed their work of twisting and twisting and twisting. Her husband rose and went to his suitcase to retrieve a bottle before disappearing into their bathroom. Circe twisted the rings, as if to a purpose. Ulysses only took a few seconds in the bathroom before he reemerged with a wash basin with a towel inside floating in some water. Circe watched him as he approached and sat by the bed. His hands retrieved the towel and wrung it a bit so that it wouldn’t drip on the bed before he slapped the cloth on her shoulder.
The pain was excruciating. A scream burst forth from her lips as she fell backwards onto the bed, writhing angrily as the holy water burned into her shoulder. For all the fire she felt against her shoulder, she half expected her skin to be falling off or at least emitting smoke, but no. There was nothing of the sort to prove the pain she felt. She thrashed angrily, trying to escape but he held her down. He had amazing strength for the man that he was. Eventually, the pain was blinding her and her thrashing stopped, though the screaming never did. Her husband removed the washcloth, leaving her arm numb. The fingers on her left hand twitched as she lay on their bed, looking up at the ceiling. She heard Ulysses sigh somewhere far away.
Her mind was a peaceful blank, though her shoulder kept her chained to reality. It wasn’t the first time he had inflicted her with holy water. It was the first time he had inflicted her with so much, however. Then again, a man like Ulysses Gibbon did not appreciate being cuckolded. And certainly not by a black-blooded necromancer. And he said so himself as he approached his wife.
“Really, pet, a corpse-raiser? You shame me. I’m surprised he could even get it up for you...considering you’re still breathing,” his words were meant to hurt, Circe knew, but nothing could break her heart. She had placed a nice little wall around it. She turned her head to look at her husband’s face as her vision returned to her. “Do you fancy you love him? Or is he just a good, hard fuck?”
Circe did not deign to respond.
“Pet, you’ve picked up the habit of breaking my heart too often,” Ulysses sighed. Circe felt a pressure against her left arm. The spot began to burn a little. “You needs be cleansed, pet. How could I ever touch you again, knowing his filth has sullied you? You must always be nice and perfect for me.”
And with that, Circe felt a prick in her arm. As her husband pushed the holy water out of the syringe and released it into her system, all she could do was look into his blue eyes and pretend they were someone else’s before the pain became too overwhelming and she was lost.