Lifeblood

by: Sachie

warnings: somewhat dark, somewhat bloody

pairings: 4+D

 

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She gazed at her own reflection in the ornate mirror, her mouth automatically curved in a knowing smile.  But the smile never reached her eyes, and her eyes were shallow, without any depth of emotion. 

 

"Who are you, Dorothy?" she asked herself, still smiling.

 

The knife in her hand was a cold metal weight.  She hefted it, testing the balance, curling her fingers against it smooth worn handle. The blade pressed against the soft skin on the underside of her arm.  It tickled, and she nearly laughed out loud.  She suppressed it to a small giggle.  It wouldn't do to let anyone know.  No one should know until it was too late for them to stop her.  Wasn't that what Treize did?  She would be like Treize, like her father, like all the others who had gone away and left her.

 

The knife was no longer cold.  The sharp blade cut through the skin, and through layers of soft tissue underneath like it was cutting paper.  She let out a soft gasp.  Her blood welled out and dribbled down her arm and onto the floor.  She watched it slowly spread across the tile, covering the neat blue squares with bright red.

 

"Dorothy!"

 

Someone was standing outside the door, pounding on it incessantly.  Dorothy thought vaguely that they had been standing there a long time.  Who could that be?

 

"Open the door!  Dorothy!"

 

I don't want to, thought Dorothy.  It’s nice in here all by myself.  I don't want you to come in.  You'll spoil it all.  She lifted the knife for another cut.

 

The pounding continued, louder and harder, until the door gave way with a crash, and Quatre Raberba Winner tumbled into the small room.

 

"Dorothy," he said.  His sea green eyes were wild, and he looked disheveled.

 

"Yes, Quatre," she smiled for him.  "I thought you had more manners than to barge in on a lady."

 

"Please let go of the knife, Dorothy."

 

She laughed.  How silly was he, to think that she would just do as he said?  She could feel the blood running down her arm.  Drip, drip.  Such a carefree sound.

 

"Go away, Quatre!" she said.  "Leave me be!"

 

"Dorothy."  He was taking small steps toward her, invading her space, trying to steal her freedom.

 

"I said, leave me be!" She lifted the blood stained knife that was in her hand, and posed it menacingly in front of her.  "Stay away."

 

But he kept coming closer.  He was murmuring softly, her name, and some inane nonsense about everything being alright.  He was speaking to her like she was a wild and frightened animal, trying to use the sound of his voice to sooth and comfort and not really caring about the words he spoke.

 

He was really so silly.

 

But why was she trembling?

 

He stood close enough to touch her, and her back was to the wall.  Cornered.  He lifted his hand, reaching for hers.

 

No!  Don't touch me!

 

She meant to push him away, but the floor was slick with blood and she lost her balance.  Falling forward, she slid into his arms, and the knife in her hand slid into his midsection with sickening ease.

 

He let out a surprised grunt, and crumpled to the floor, taking her with him in a tangle of limbs.   His head fell against her shoulder. He made a half-choked sound of pain and his soft blonde hair tickled her face.  His warm blood flowed over her fingers and soaked into her clothes.  She could feel it hot and sticky and damp against her skin.  She wanted to scream.  The room was spinning.

 

"Let go of the knife, Dorothy.  Don't pull.  Just let go."

 

It took a while for her to realize he was still speaking to her, and through gritted teeth still using that soft soothing voice.  His face was very pale and beaded with sweat.  Dorothy had always thought Quatre was more pretty than handsome.  The soft curve of his mouth and his long lashes gave his face a feminine grace.  "Angelic," she had called him in mocking tones.

 

Dorothy, let go.  

 

She obeyed.  Her fingers were sticky and cramped, it took an effort to pry them off of the handle.  She could feel his body tense every time she pulled away another finger.  He seemed so frail, she could hardly believe he had actually broken through the door to get to her.  For what?  So he could be stabbed?  She watched his shoulders rise and fall as he breathed.

 

"Dorothy," he rasped.  He intertwined his own fingers with hers as he spoke, as if to reassure her.  Or was he seeking reassurance himself?  "Are you all right?"

 

"I think you are in worse shape than I am."  Her voice came out sounding wrong, high-pitched and uncertain.

 

He laughed, or tried to.  It sounded more like a wheeze.

 

I don't understand you, thought Dorothy.  You should be angry at me.  I stabbed you!  You might even be dying.  You should hate me.

 

"Why did you try to stop me?"  She didn't even realize she had spoken out loud.

 

"Stupid of me?"

 

"Yes."

 

Such a fool.  Now he was paying for it with his blood, his life poured out into a cold tile floor.  He should have known better than to try to intervene.

 

"You should have let me die."

 

"Couldn't do that."

 

"I know.  You are so compassionate."  It was meant to be sarcastic, but somehow, between her mind and her mouth, the words lost their sneer.  They hung in the air, ominous and profound.

 

"Not as much as you," said Quatre solemnly.  "You were in so much pain that you wanted to end your life, yet now you are thinking of me.  You have a kind heart, though you hide it well."

 

They'd had this same conversation a long time ago.  Quatre had ended up stabbed and bleeding back then too.  Yet he still insisted on seeing the good in her.  It was infuriating.  She wasn't kind or compassionate.  She was selfish and weak and so mired in her own misery that she was unable to find a way out of her own darkness.

 

"I killed you."

 

"You didn't mean to."  Quatre smiled wanly.  "And don't worry.  I won't die yet.  I think I hear an ambulance." He closed his eyes. 

 

"Stay with me, Dorothy."  His bloodstained fingers were still curled around her own.

 

She didn't know if he was talking about the ride to the hospital, or if he meant something else entirely.

 

"Yes," she said, and answered for both.

 

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