eilif (eilif) wrote in wariscoming, @ 2012-02-22 20:06:00 |
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Entry tags: | tessa lewis |
Who Tessa and actions of Loki being summarized with Erin's ok (narrative/complete unless someone wants to tag in)
What Loki becomes the God of domestic violence part 2
When Tonight
Where Some field of brooding somewhere, then the complex steps.
Warnings Lots of violence. Really, ALL THE VIOLENCE.
Tessa had known her mother was wrong about what had happened. She had known it, the way she knew how to breathe, a knowledge so certain and strong it was bodily, instinctive. Her father would not do the things this past version of her mother claimed. That her mother wouldn’t lie didn’t present a challenge to this knowledge – Darcy had been hurt somehow, her memories had been altered, she had been threatened, something beyond her control had made her sure of the impossible. Tessa was a person of certainties, doing nothing by halves, wafting through life with the confidence of someone who had managed to inherit the whole package – power, wealth, beauty, and intelligence – without lifting a finger, and who didn’t merely know this, but who accepted it as her intrinsic right, no more than was due to her.
She had followed her father, appearing before him with a grin that was as wide and open as when she had been a little girl slipping away from school or babysitters to suddenly appear wherever Loki was. Her words now were a joking echo of what she had always said so enthusiastically then: “Found you Dad,” she called, pushing her hair back with one hand and approaching him with the peculiar gait she used around her family, half-swagger, half-coltish bounding. She would get her answers and she would fix this as easily as she teased James into preening for her or cajoled Patrick out of a sulk. She was certain.
The certainty lasted until, approximately, the second broken bone. She was on the ground with blood flecked lips and she looked up and ceased to see the man above her as her father, ceased to see herself as a daughter, a friend, as Tessa, and became only something living that wanted to go on doing so. She screamed through the pain of a broken rib, dug her fingers into the dirt, and threw herself forward to fight back. She gave up on speaking, on trying to talk sense into him, then. He, after an initial demand that she ”end this dream immediately,” was coldly silent, his rage inaccessible and incomprehensible even as it bruised her skin and snapped her bones.
By the time a blow finally sent her flying backwards far enough that she had a chance to catch her breath, to do more than curl away or raise her hands defensively (landing a hit of her own had gone by the wayside sometime around her left eye swelling shut), it was almost too late. She wasted seconds she didn’t have on shocked numbness, and then on pain, and so by the time she realized she’d been given what might be her only chance it was almost wasted. Her assailant was a hair’s breadth from close enough to keep her (to kill her, since she knew, with certainty that now actually was bodily and sure, that even she wouldn’t survive this if the thing with her father’s face could keep her there) when she managed to gather herself, find one last reserve, and throw herself away from the field where she lay, into the eye-blink of between space that accompanied teleporting.
Her body hit the steps of the Complex with a dull thud, the lifeless sound of a sack of skin and bone rather than a thrashing, fighting person coming up all elbows and hands outstretched. Her fingers curled, in and out, a gentle grasping, but her arm wouldn’t respond and her phone was as useless in her pocket as if it had been left back in the field.