ext_97777 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
flamingly-fey.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
31_days2007-03-11 06:06 pm
flamingly-fey.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2007-03-11 06:06 pm
[March 11] [D. Gray-Man] The Memory Of A Broken Doll
Title: The Memory Of A Broken Doll
Day/Theme: 11 Mar. - once the words are spoken, something may be broken
Series: D. Gray-Man
Characters: (none are directly named, but...) Allen Walker, Bak Chan, Fou
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Suicide attempt, completely-cracked!Allen, SPOILERS IF YOU'RE FOLLOWING THE US RELEASE (in other words, spoilers for the Asia Branch arc and what precipitated it...), unbetaed but self-edited
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except perhaps the concept.
Notes: Decided to play around with the idea that the combination of such severe injuries and the loss of the Innocence might have broken Allen's mind. ('tis a testament to his determination and strength that it didn't, IMHO.) And so... here's a mentally shot-to-hell version of Allen Walker, one who's not quite sure who he used to be.
***
He cut his wrists, once. Or, rather, he cut his wrist—he’d held the knife between his knees and ran his right wrist over it. He can’t remember now what type he used. It had to have been sharp, the cuts were deep and bled like mad but didn’t really hurt.
He could see a vein that hadn’t cut for some reason pulsing sluggishly above the now-exposed tendons in his wrist. He looked up slowly and she was there, screaming at him. She hit him, still screaming, and began to bandage his wrist without even bothering to rinse the blood off of his arm, tearing one of her trailing sleeves for a bandage. Then everything was black and he can’t remember much until what must have been several hours later.
He woke up and he was tied to a bed. Doctor spoke in a hushed voice to her, nervously glancing down at him from time to time. He felt sick, suddenly, but couldn’t move—he ended up retching with his head turned to the left so the vomit pooled along the side of his chest and neck instead of running back down into his lungs. She didn’t move to help him, only looked disgusted; Doctor was the one who unclasped the restraints and picked him up, carefully, not caring that his whitewhitewhite coat was being spoiled.
“It’ll be all right,” he said. “I just have to get you cleaned up. Hold still for me.” He did so, and only flinched a little when Doctor unbuttoned and discarded his shirt, because he hadn’t wanted the man to see his other scars. He whispered something in that nonsense-talk he used to speak to her and his assistants, and turned away for a moment. His eyes looked damp when he turned back. “Can you walk?”
He stood, and sat back down very quickly—he didn’t like it when the room went all tilty like that. He shook his head, blushing from shame.
“That’s all right,” Doctor said warmly, reassuringly. “I’ll carry you, and then you’re going to have a bath. You like baths, don’t you?”
He nodded. He could pretend he was floating far away from her and her insistent fighting when he was in the bath, somewhere with sun and warm water springs. He shivered at the touch of the dampness on Doctor’s jacket, but curled closer to him anyway. There had been another man who’d carried him like this when he was sick, a long time ago… but he didn’t know who that was.
There were people staring at them, so he hid his face against Doctor’s shoulder. He heard them whispering—more nonsense-talk—and tried not to whimper. He was a freak, he knew that. Even Doctor’s hair was darker than his, and nobody but him had only one arm. They didn’t need to keep reminding him of it. “…didn’t mean it,” he said, voice crackly from disuse.
Doctor stopped walking very suddenly. “You didn’t mean what?” he asked, voice shaking a little.
“Didn’t mean to die. Just wanted to know what it felt like,” he said back, trying not to cry.
“To die, you mean?”
“No. To… to feel something like that.” He suddenly remembered a girl hitting him in the face, and flinched. She’d been angry at him… he’d done it before what had happened, too? “Did I ever do this before?” he asked, looking up anxiously.
Doctor didn’t meet his eyes or reply; he just turned around and backed into the door to the baths so they could get in without him being forced to walk. “No, not that I know of,” he said after a long pause.
“Oh.” His voice sounded small against all of the tile. The baths were at one end of a really big room—shower-heads and spaces to put your clothes took up the other part. Doctor set him down on a stool in front of one of the shower-heads.
“You can wash yourself, right?”
He nodded, and turned the tap on. Hot water came out right away—and for some reason he thought ‘It wasn’t like this at home. Only the bath was hot there.’ He bit his lower lip. Things kept slipping away. “Doctor, where’s ‘home’ for me?” And then—he didn’t know why—he started crying.
Day/Theme: 11 Mar. - once the words are spoken, something may be broken
Series: D. Gray-Man
Characters: (none are directly named, but...) Allen Walker, Bak Chan, Fou
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Suicide attempt, completely-cracked!Allen, SPOILERS IF YOU'RE FOLLOWING THE US RELEASE (in other words, spoilers for the Asia Branch arc and what precipitated it...), unbetaed but self-edited
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except perhaps the concept.
Notes: Decided to play around with the idea that the combination of such severe injuries and the loss of the Innocence might have broken Allen's mind. ('tis a testament to his determination and strength that it didn't, IMHO.) And so... here's a mentally shot-to-hell version of Allen Walker, one who's not quite sure who he used to be.
***
He cut his wrists, once. Or, rather, he cut his wrist—he’d held the knife between his knees and ran his right wrist over it. He can’t remember now what type he used. It had to have been sharp, the cuts were deep and bled like mad but didn’t really hurt.
He could see a vein that hadn’t cut for some reason pulsing sluggishly above the now-exposed tendons in his wrist. He looked up slowly and she was there, screaming at him. She hit him, still screaming, and began to bandage his wrist without even bothering to rinse the blood off of his arm, tearing one of her trailing sleeves for a bandage. Then everything was black and he can’t remember much until what must have been several hours later.
He woke up and he was tied to a bed. Doctor spoke in a hushed voice to her, nervously glancing down at him from time to time. He felt sick, suddenly, but couldn’t move—he ended up retching with his head turned to the left so the vomit pooled along the side of his chest and neck instead of running back down into his lungs. She didn’t move to help him, only looked disgusted; Doctor was the one who unclasped the restraints and picked him up, carefully, not caring that his whitewhitewhite coat was being spoiled.
“It’ll be all right,” he said. “I just have to get you cleaned up. Hold still for me.” He did so, and only flinched a little when Doctor unbuttoned and discarded his shirt, because he hadn’t wanted the man to see his other scars. He whispered something in that nonsense-talk he used to speak to her and his assistants, and turned away for a moment. His eyes looked damp when he turned back. “Can you walk?”
He stood, and sat back down very quickly—he didn’t like it when the room went all tilty like that. He shook his head, blushing from shame.
“That’s all right,” Doctor said warmly, reassuringly. “I’ll carry you, and then you’re going to have a bath. You like baths, don’t you?”
He nodded. He could pretend he was floating far away from her and her insistent fighting when he was in the bath, somewhere with sun and warm water springs. He shivered at the touch of the dampness on Doctor’s jacket, but curled closer to him anyway. There had been another man who’d carried him like this when he was sick, a long time ago… but he didn’t know who that was.
There were people staring at them, so he hid his face against Doctor’s shoulder. He heard them whispering—more nonsense-talk—and tried not to whimper. He was a freak, he knew that. Even Doctor’s hair was darker than his, and nobody but him had only one arm. They didn’t need to keep reminding him of it. “…didn’t mean it,” he said, voice crackly from disuse.
Doctor stopped walking very suddenly. “You didn’t mean what?” he asked, voice shaking a little.
“Didn’t mean to die. Just wanted to know what it felt like,” he said back, trying not to cry.
“To die, you mean?”
“No. To… to feel something like that.” He suddenly remembered a girl hitting him in the face, and flinched. She’d been angry at him… he’d done it before what had happened, too? “Did I ever do this before?” he asked, looking up anxiously.
Doctor didn’t meet his eyes or reply; he just turned around and backed into the door to the baths so they could get in without him being forced to walk. “No, not that I know of,” he said after a long pause.
“Oh.” His voice sounded small against all of the tile. The baths were at one end of a really big room—shower-heads and spaces to put your clothes took up the other part. Doctor set him down on a stool in front of one of the shower-heads.
“You can wash yourself, right?”
He nodded, and turned the tap on. Hot water came out right away—and for some reason he thought ‘It wasn’t like this at home. Only the bath was hot there.’ He bit his lower lip. Things kept slipping away. “Doctor, where’s ‘home’ for me?” And then—he didn’t know why—he started crying.