twiststheblade (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
twiststheblade) wrote2006-11-20 07:29 pm
twiststheblade) wrote2006-11-20 07:29 pm
The Sound of Silence
Miho had been right, when she'd assumed that her door would open onto the last place she'd been. She'd also been right when she'd figured that getting out of the compound would be equally easy. The men who were still living or, more to the point, those who were still ambulatory, were not in any sort of order. They weren't panicking, quite – they were far too well trained for that. They were not, though, as vigilant as usual.
A little stealth, and she'd made her way out of the compound, and headed, once again, for the garage. This time, speed being not so much of the essence, she'd taken a car, rather than one of the few remaining bikes. Her vanity had been unable to resist picking one of the flashier models – but then, they were a little faster, even if the armouring on some of the other vehicles had been sacrificed for the sake of looks. The windows were still bullet-proof, not that, as it turned out, that would have been necessary.
The journey to the airport was uneventful – even the programs on the radio were boring. In fact, that would have been a pretty good description of the journey all of the way back to Basin City. Much to Miho's surprise, she had no issues getting out of the country, either with buying a plane ticket, or with her passport.
It wasn't until she got back to Basin City that things got interesting – and even then, it wasn't for quite some time. Months went past, no more eventful than usual. There were shootings, and fights, problems with small power-struggles, all of the usual things that made up day-to-day life in Old Town. But really, nothing much changed.
No door, though. She'd expected it to follow her. To turn up when she needed it, but – why she had expected that, she didn't really know. Just as she wasn't sure why she had felt the need to leave – so she wasn't sure why she had felt that her door would come back. And equally, why she was sure that it wouldn't return. Not now, anyway. Not yet.
So, she went back to her old life. It was as if, almost, Milliways bar had been a dream. Except, she knew it hadn't been. She could never have imagined something like that – and she had the voice, and the scars, to prove that she hadn't. But, for all intents and purposes, it was as if she had never been away.
As if she hadn't been away aside from the fact that her room, once just a place to sleep and store the few things she didn't have on her at all times, seemed empty. Aside from the fact that it was odd, not to have companionship. It wasn't hard not to speak – she had nothing to say.
Aside from the niggling feeling of not – quite – belonging, everything was as if she had never left.
Until someone from her past showed up.
Someone who had more cause than before to hate her.
See, Miho had a baby brother. A baby brother who had been there, when their mother was killed. A baby brother who had blamed her, said it was her fault that her mother had tried to run away, that she would have lived if she hadn't provoked their father, that everything that happened, she had brought upon herself.
That she had murdered their mother. Their father had no choice – he couldn't appear weak. That he beat his daughter for her own good. That the welts and bruises he himself often bore were for his own good. If she was her father's doll, he was his father's animal, through and through. He had a kind of sick worship for the man – Miho thought it sick, anyway.
He told her she was filth. Their mother was a saint. Their father a god. When he spoke to her, that is – it was not long before he stopped speaking to her at all. Refused to even acknowledge that he had a sister.
But when she showed up, after years of being missing, went through the compound like a ghost, leaving nothing but death behind her – then he had a sister again.
A sister, and an enemy.
He came for her, eventually. When he had retraced the steps her father had taken to find her – there being no-one left alive who could tell him where she was. She had made very sure of that. But the paper trail was still there, for someone dedicated enough to research it. The dedication born of hate is strong, and it was not long before he came for her.
He did not make the mistake of coming upon her alone. He knew very well that it was unlikely that they both would survive the encounter – and he could not punish her if he was dead, and he could not punish her if she were dead. She needed to be alive, to know what she had done. To pay for what she had done. He was alone, though. Alone, but not fool-hardy. He took her down from a distance, with a tranquiliser dart. She never even knew that he was there. She didn't know anything, after the first wash of blackness across her vision, for many hours.
Then, all she knew was pain. He was no professional, not like her father's torturers had been – but he was dedicated, and he hated, and he persevered. Even the strongest of minds cannot stay unbroken, when all it knows is unending pain. When blow is laid upon blow until there is no skin left to shield screaming nerve endings, when there are not enough endorphins in all the world to dull the pain. She held on, as long as she could.
Time stretched out – became meaningless. It was an unending tunnel, blinding and throbbing, all-encompassing.
What did he want? If he had wanted something, it would have been easier. But he beat her in silence. The only sounds in the hot, windowless room his breathing, and hers, steady at first, stoic, but eventually, even she screamed.
Once that first scream had escaped her lips, it was as if a floodgate had been opened, and she couldn't keep silent. Couldn't keep silent, that is, until she had no voice left to scream with. No breath, no will, nothing. She just hung, silent, breath escaping her in quiet, gasping sobs now.
She coughed, leaning forward, a fine spray of blood leaving her bitten lips – bitten through in a last effort not to scream - and misting the concrete floor. He growled, and backhanded her across the face, snapping her head to the side. She laughed for some reason, weakly, hanging sideways in her bonds now, not bothering to keep herself upright. Until he grabbed her hair, pulling her up, stretching her neck painfully. Then she had no option.
Finally, he spoke. Why, what caused him to break his silence, she would never know. Perhaps that laugh. “Killing one parent wasn't good enough for you, you had to kill them both?” His voice was low, measured, even. No strain showing, from the physical exertion he had just put himself through.
She laughed, again, quietly. “I didn't kill her. But I killed him, and you know why.”
He hit her again, and this time her head couldn't move more than a little, pinned in place by his fist wound into her hair.
“Shut up.”
Her gaze didn't waver from his, even though he couldn't meet her eyes for more than a few seconds at a time. Her gaze was steady.
“You know. You know what he did to me. You know what he did to her. You know what he did to you and you're still defending him.”
“He did it to make us strong,” he growled.
Miho closed her eyes and laughed, bitterly. “To make us strong. He turned me into his toy to make me strong.”
Another back-handed fist across the face, and she was coughing blood again. Something changed in her, then. It was as if she were back in that compound, in her father's office, or the dining room, or his bedroom, or her own room. Anywhere – she had no will of her own, then. Now, it was different. All she had was her will, her sense of self. And her silence.
She didn't speak to him again.
She didn't make another sound. Not a scream, or a gasp, or even a sigh escaped her lips. His ferocity grew, but still, not a sound. Eventually he left her, hanging there, in the silence and the dark. She didn't know how long for. Minutes, hours, days, it was all the same.
When he came back, it was to feed her, give her sips of water – oddly tenderly, strangely solicitous. Then the beating began again, until the blood was running down the backs of her bare legs once again, cut on welt on weal.
Still, not a noise did she make.
He left again, for longer this time. And his visits grew shorter, and less frequent, and sometimes she wondered if he had forgotten her. Whether it would be better to die, alone, in the dark, or if even his company were preferable to that.
She closed her eyes
She was always bound, but he did not keep her tied, any more. She could lie down, on the hard floor, although the scant padding of her skinny body wasn't enough to keep bones from pressing uncomfortably through too-thin flesh. At least it wasn't cold, she could be grateful for that. It was if anything too hot, close and cloying, the hot darkness like an oppressive hand pinning her down.
She closed her eyes, and tried to find a position that was comfortable, where flayed flesh did not grate against the floor, but it was impossible. She could bear pain, though. She could bear anything, if she had to. And she had no choice. She could make herself sleep, force unconsciousness on her weary body.
When she awoke, he still had not visited. Her eyes were acclimated to the room now, and she could make out the faint outline of the door, the single unlit light-bulb, the eye-bolt in the ceiling he had tethered her to. Unsteadily, she rose to her feet, tried to stretch, and found she could move, a little, within her bonds.
And if she could move a little, that little could me made into more, and, eventually, she made her way out of her bonds. Skin scraped raw by the rough chafing of the rope, but still, she was free. She padded, on bare bruised feet, over to the door, discovering, with no real surprise, that the door wasn't locked.
There was only one thing she could do, now. Only one course of action left open to her. Because he would never let her go. She would never be free, until her past was obliterated. She was determined that was how it would be – that he could only ever be a part of her past.
He was asleep, when she found him, although it hadn't taken much looking. The few rooms he'd bought or rented were small and cramped, and he was asleep on a cover-less bed, it's mattress stained and dingy. She looked down at him for a moment. Her mind was made up – if there had ever been a decision made in the first place – but he was family. He deserved goodbye, at least.
Nothing else, though, and it was with very little fuss that the spark of his life was snuffed out for ever. Except, and is was said very softly, before she left the room, “I love you.”
Those were the last words she would speak. And, really, they were not such terrible words to fall silent on.
A little stealth, and she'd made her way out of the compound, and headed, once again, for the garage. This time, speed being not so much of the essence, she'd taken a car, rather than one of the few remaining bikes. Her vanity had been unable to resist picking one of the flashier models – but then, they were a little faster, even if the armouring on some of the other vehicles had been sacrificed for the sake of looks. The windows were still bullet-proof, not that, as it turned out, that would have been necessary.
The journey to the airport was uneventful – even the programs on the radio were boring. In fact, that would have been a pretty good description of the journey all of the way back to Basin City. Much to Miho's surprise, she had no issues getting out of the country, either with buying a plane ticket, or with her passport.
It wasn't until she got back to Basin City that things got interesting – and even then, it wasn't for quite some time. Months went past, no more eventful than usual. There were shootings, and fights, problems with small power-struggles, all of the usual things that made up day-to-day life in Old Town. But really, nothing much changed.
No door, though. She'd expected it to follow her. To turn up when she needed it, but – why she had expected that, she didn't really know. Just as she wasn't sure why she had felt the need to leave – so she wasn't sure why she had felt that her door would come back. And equally, why she was sure that it wouldn't return. Not now, anyway. Not yet.
So, she went back to her old life. It was as if, almost, Milliways bar had been a dream. Except, she knew it hadn't been. She could never have imagined something like that – and she had the voice, and the scars, to prove that she hadn't. But, for all intents and purposes, it was as if she had never been away.
As if she hadn't been away aside from the fact that her room, once just a place to sleep and store the few things she didn't have on her at all times, seemed empty. Aside from the fact that it was odd, not to have companionship. It wasn't hard not to speak – she had nothing to say.
Aside from the niggling feeling of not – quite – belonging, everything was as if she had never left.
Until someone from her past showed up.
Someone who had more cause than before to hate her.
See, Miho had a baby brother. A baby brother who had been there, when their mother was killed. A baby brother who had blamed her, said it was her fault that her mother had tried to run away, that she would have lived if she hadn't provoked their father, that everything that happened, she had brought upon herself.
That she had murdered their mother. Their father had no choice – he couldn't appear weak. That he beat his daughter for her own good. That the welts and bruises he himself often bore were for his own good. If she was her father's doll, he was his father's animal, through and through. He had a kind of sick worship for the man – Miho thought it sick, anyway.
He told her she was filth. Their mother was a saint. Their father a god. When he spoke to her, that is – it was not long before he stopped speaking to her at all. Refused to even acknowledge that he had a sister.
But when she showed up, after years of being missing, went through the compound like a ghost, leaving nothing but death behind her – then he had a sister again.
A sister, and an enemy.
He came for her, eventually. When he had retraced the steps her father had taken to find her – there being no-one left alive who could tell him where she was. She had made very sure of that. But the paper trail was still there, for someone dedicated enough to research it. The dedication born of hate is strong, and it was not long before he came for her.
He did not make the mistake of coming upon her alone. He knew very well that it was unlikely that they both would survive the encounter – and he could not punish her if he was dead, and he could not punish her if she were dead. She needed to be alive, to know what she had done. To pay for what she had done. He was alone, though. Alone, but not fool-hardy. He took her down from a distance, with a tranquiliser dart. She never even knew that he was there. She didn't know anything, after the first wash of blackness across her vision, for many hours.
Then, all she knew was pain. He was no professional, not like her father's torturers had been – but he was dedicated, and he hated, and he persevered. Even the strongest of minds cannot stay unbroken, when all it knows is unending pain. When blow is laid upon blow until there is no skin left to shield screaming nerve endings, when there are not enough endorphins in all the world to dull the pain. She held on, as long as she could.
Time stretched out – became meaningless. It was an unending tunnel, blinding and throbbing, all-encompassing.
What did he want? If he had wanted something, it would have been easier. But he beat her in silence. The only sounds in the hot, windowless room his breathing, and hers, steady at first, stoic, but eventually, even she screamed.
Once that first scream had escaped her lips, it was as if a floodgate had been opened, and she couldn't keep silent. Couldn't keep silent, that is, until she had no voice left to scream with. No breath, no will, nothing. She just hung, silent, breath escaping her in quiet, gasping sobs now.
She coughed, leaning forward, a fine spray of blood leaving her bitten lips – bitten through in a last effort not to scream - and misting the concrete floor. He growled, and backhanded her across the face, snapping her head to the side. She laughed for some reason, weakly, hanging sideways in her bonds now, not bothering to keep herself upright. Until he grabbed her hair, pulling her up, stretching her neck painfully. Then she had no option.
Finally, he spoke. Why, what caused him to break his silence, she would never know. Perhaps that laugh. “Killing one parent wasn't good enough for you, you had to kill them both?” His voice was low, measured, even. No strain showing, from the physical exertion he had just put himself through.
She laughed, again, quietly. “I didn't kill her. But I killed him, and you know why.”
He hit her again, and this time her head couldn't move more than a little, pinned in place by his fist wound into her hair.
“Shut up.”
Her gaze didn't waver from his, even though he couldn't meet her eyes for more than a few seconds at a time. Her gaze was steady.
“You know. You know what he did to me. You know what he did to her. You know what he did to you and you're still defending him.”
“He did it to make us strong,” he growled.
Miho closed her eyes and laughed, bitterly. “To make us strong. He turned me into his toy to make me strong.”
Another back-handed fist across the face, and she was coughing blood again. Something changed in her, then. It was as if she were back in that compound, in her father's office, or the dining room, or his bedroom, or her own room. Anywhere – she had no will of her own, then. Now, it was different. All she had was her will, her sense of self. And her silence.
She didn't speak to him again.
She didn't make another sound. Not a scream, or a gasp, or even a sigh escaped her lips. His ferocity grew, but still, not a sound. Eventually he left her, hanging there, in the silence and the dark. She didn't know how long for. Minutes, hours, days, it was all the same.
When he came back, it was to feed her, give her sips of water – oddly tenderly, strangely solicitous. Then the beating began again, until the blood was running down the backs of her bare legs once again, cut on welt on weal.
Still, not a noise did she make.
He left again, for longer this time. And his visits grew shorter, and less frequent, and sometimes she wondered if he had forgotten her. Whether it would be better to die, alone, in the dark, or if even his company were preferable to that.
She closed her eyes
She was always bound, but he did not keep her tied, any more. She could lie down, on the hard floor, although the scant padding of her skinny body wasn't enough to keep bones from pressing uncomfortably through too-thin flesh. At least it wasn't cold, she could be grateful for that. It was if anything too hot, close and cloying, the hot darkness like an oppressive hand pinning her down.
She closed her eyes, and tried to find a position that was comfortable, where flayed flesh did not grate against the floor, but it was impossible. She could bear pain, though. She could bear anything, if she had to. And she had no choice. She could make herself sleep, force unconsciousness on her weary body.
When she awoke, he still had not visited. Her eyes were acclimated to the room now, and she could make out the faint outline of the door, the single unlit light-bulb, the eye-bolt in the ceiling he had tethered her to. Unsteadily, she rose to her feet, tried to stretch, and found she could move, a little, within her bonds.
And if she could move a little, that little could me made into more, and, eventually, she made her way out of her bonds. Skin scraped raw by the rough chafing of the rope, but still, she was free. She padded, on bare bruised feet, over to the door, discovering, with no real surprise, that the door wasn't locked.
There was only one thing she could do, now. Only one course of action left open to her. Because he would never let her go. She would never be free, until her past was obliterated. She was determined that was how it would be – that he could only ever be a part of her past.
He was asleep, when she found him, although it hadn't taken much looking. The few rooms he'd bought or rented were small and cramped, and he was asleep on a cover-less bed, it's mattress stained and dingy. She looked down at him for a moment. Her mind was made up – if there had ever been a decision made in the first place – but he was family. He deserved goodbye, at least.
Nothing else, though, and it was with very little fuss that the spark of his life was snuffed out for ever. Except, and is was said very softly, before she left the room, “I love you.”
Those were the last words she would speak. And, really, they were not such terrible words to fall silent on.