St. Peter's Asylum discussion

((Try to take Phoenix's darts. I dare you.))

Phoenix shrugged. "I am new here," she replied. "I didn't even move in until two weeks ago." Before then, she had been under something of house arrest with her mother while the police--and multiple psychologists--tried to find a suitable place to move her. Obviously, things couldn't have gone to trial--the prosecution would have lost the case faster than anything. The little redhead had known how well the story she'd made for the murder fit. The searching had gone on for about a month, and then finally she had been sent to St. Peter's--off in her mother's footsteps. Akantha, she reasoned, couldn't have been a hacker like Rosemarie and Raven; at least, she didn't seem like one. Otherwise, there would be no scorn.

[Then there definitely will be blood.]

"New blood? That's delightful. Congratulations on submission, though, only the best of the best get in here." Akantha's voice was a little bit bitter and a whole lot sarcastic. In her mindset, it wasn't such a bad place to be, but for others, she knew it was a living hell, a prison inescapable by its inmates. Akantha was suddenly interested with the girl now, her attention focusing away from her small but sweet taste of freedom and again to the girl who was called Phoenix. "I am curious, though, if you wouldn't mind telling; what're you in for?" She seemed scared of the sadists they'd discussed earlier, but not frightened enough to have paranoia, so Akantha couldn't help but wonder what her deal was. She seemed very hard to place.

"General insanity," Phoenix answered. She shrugged. "NOS. They say it might just run in the family--my mother spent two years in St. Peter's when she was a girl. So I'm not exactly new blood, either." And anger-management disorders played a part, Phoenix added on, silently. And murder as well, though of course, you're too stupid to realize I'm withholding the truth, aren't you, Akantha? You're too focused on your ego-stroking vanity project. None of the thoughts showed on her face, of course, but they were certainly there. The little redhead noticed the way Akantha suddenly took an interest in her, as if her life story were her business. It didn't sit well, but Phoenix was willing to let it slide. For right now. She didn't think that the wheelchair-bound girl posed any bit of a threat.

"Oh. That's interesting." If she only had minor insanity, why had she taken such an interest in poison and Raven? Akantha was starting to realize that during this conversation, she had to ask herself a lot of questions. There was something not right about it, things weren't adding up. Akantha was too busy to dwell on that with her distracted state, but something in the back of her head told her there was something not exactly normal about the redhead girl. Akantha passed it off. There were several odd people at the asylum, and she wasn't suspicious of Phoenix at all. She wouldn't be until she was back in the asylum when she would read her files in a few weeks.

((And on that note, shall we fade?))

[We shall.]

Raven had been spending a lot of time outside the asylum--and by a lot of time, he meant every single moment of every single day since he'd be discharged from that padded room, fourteen days ago. There was no better way to avoid patients and staff--and right now, the Indian certainly needed to avoid both. His state of mind was incredibly fragile (even he himself could realize that) and he felt more volatile than a wired bomb. If one person gave him one wrong look, made one wrong gesture, said one wrong thing, he would snap once again and straight back into that cell he would go. And now, the thought was horrifying. He didn't want to spend another minute in that room, let alone a night or even several days because he was sure that it would trigger a relapse, fresh waves of that blinding, disorienting fury he'd felt for seven days straight as he lie restrained on all that padding. That would do nothing for him, it would make him worse--which was why he had avoided the building entirely. Outside was much more peaceful than inside. He could pray here for as long as he wanted without getting pointed out or laughed at, which was more reassuring than any happy pill (he'd had several experiences with those too while in the room, and they had done little for him.) Now he sat, on his knees in front of the peach tree, head bowed and hands on either thigh. His eyes were closed, and for the first time since he'd left the padded room, he felt at peace. Detached from the world, almost, which was a very good place to be when you wanted to speak with the sprits, when you wanted to commune. And commune he was. He prayed for guidance, forgiveness, strength, for Rosemarie, for himself, for their love. He prayed to Anna, and asked her to show him love, to help him find his place in the world again. And right now, lost in his own personal little world, he could almost feel her listening. He so dearly hoped that she was. He wasn't aware of it when he began to speak aloud; "Ulá, howatsu, alisdeládi ayá. Adatayosehá adáná didanádo, gahigoháha. Adasehedi ayá digáwalosá hia ulasigi iyuwakodi."

The asylum had never felt like more of a prison than the past two weeks where Rosemarie had spent in the asylum. For about three days after Carlos had come to visit her--he had been her only visitor--she had been released from the infirmary and all hell had broke loose. Patients had snickered at her, thrown her victorious glanced as if they had somehow won some great battle. It had been a while since the former Huntress had been at the bottom of the food chain at St. Peter's, but they were sure to remind her what it was like. Some had even attempted to play some games with her, and she had snapped savagely at them and escaped to her dorm where she spent much of her time and cried a little from her panic. She had finally been able to stop crying, and she was ever so grateful because she hated to cry. Eventually, though, being in the asylum had become too much and she had fled from the doors in desperate need of an escape. She wanted to be as far away from the asylum as she could and had at first gone in the direction of the graveyard, and then had quickly changed direction. The graveyard was the last place she wanted to be (no, Raven's dorm was the last place) because there were just too many memories and the ones most fresh were the most painful. Being there would do nothing to help her now, and would only make her state of mind worse, which she wouldn't have thought of as even possible. She had settled on the peach tree, and quickly regretted her decision when she saw Raven. She didn't want to be around him right now, and especially when she thought he was still so angry with her. But she stayed regardless, unmoving, just standing because she loved him and that part of her wanted to be around him, and that part of her won over the one that wanted to run away as fast as she could.

And Raven felt a presence behind him, felt eyes on his back. They drew him down, back to the Middle World, back to realty--but he was determined to finish the prayer before he went with the current. "Ale ayá igohidakuu gesá nihi, gálákuodi ulá, hawinaditlá adanádo, hawinaditlá odanádá, hawinaditlá adanádo--nihi dinadanátli, Usdi Waya." It was then and only then that he dared open his eyes, dared to move at all--and even then, he only raised his head. He didn't want to turn and look, didn't want to see who it was who had, undoubtedly, come to torture him (that was all anybody ever did these days.) He was rather worried, in all honesty, about snapping again. That would send him back to that white, padded prison for sure, and if he had to spend another minute there the Indian knew he would really lose his mind. So when he spoke, he made an effort to keep his voice very quiet and very calm, contrasting sharply with the flare of anger and slight panic in his mind. Who would interrupt him now, with his mind in this state? Who would dare? Everyone knew how fragile his sanity was now; that someone had come at all and not immediately run away screaming was a bad sign. It could not have been anyone he wanted to see. "Who is it and what do you want? Can't you see I'm busy here?"

The former Huntress had eventually decided that Raven looked far too busy and not ready to talk to her. She didn't think she was ready to talk to him, either, and she certainly couldn't sit on the other side of the tree and forget that he was there. She decided to turn and go and had actually made her way back down the hill when he had spoken. Her heart jumped at the familiar sound. Should she just leave? She wondered, looking at his back and feeling that all too familiar pull towards him, but she tried to fight it. If he hadn't come looking for her, he didn't want to speak to her and she would have to oblige. "Hi, Golana," she said quietly with her eyes kept on the ground. If he didn't recognize the sound of her voice, then he would recognize the pet name. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were her. I was just... I'll leave." She had her arms crossed over her stomach and one of her hands touched the scar on her stomach. The stitches were gone, but the scar remained even though the nurses had told her coco butter would help to get rid of it. She actually wanted to keep the scar, it would help remind her why she had had to make the tough decision she had made. It helped a lot in times like these. She turned to go down the hill, back to the asylum, her prison.

"Tla," Raven said sharply. He didn't turn around--he didn't dare--but it was clear by the sound of his voice that he had just told her no. "Edoa ahani." Stay here. Honestly, he was confused by he tidal wave of emotions that flooded him at the uncertain sound of Rosemarie's voice. Anger. Regret. Uncertainty, happiness...something warmer, something brighter that he could only call love. It was small, a simple stirring in his chest, but it was there. And it was enough that he demand that she stay. He wasn't by any means prepared to talk to his lover (he was hardly even prepared to speak to her in English, for the love of Pete) and he still wasn't sure that she was entirely trustworthy--she sounded as if she regretted what happened, certainly--but he had no idea if it was an act or simply some instinctive reaction. He would, he thought, wait and see. He fairly had to--because he was calm right now, and it was the first time he had been calm in three weeks. Who knew when he would reach this state again? By the time he did, it could be too late for them; for both of them. Now had to be the time. Now, he was going to figure things out.

Rosemarie didn't argue and she plopped right down on the ground. She was far away from him now, but she could hear him perfectly and clearly, but she didn't say she didn't mind the distance. She appreciated it, especially when her sudden fear got in the way of all of her other emotions. She was too afraid to not sit down, afraid he would snap again when she didn't follow an order. She didn't speak, she wouldn't until he said something to her or told her to speak, but she couldn't yet. She didn't even know what she could say so she waited for him to say something, anything to her. Eyes still on the ground, Rosemarie pulled her legs into a comfortable position, tucked into her chest into a small ball. She breathed in deeply, waiting as she held her breathe.

((Whenever you mean to type 'breath' you end up typing 'breathe.' XD))

"Gado tsu nihi nanadánehá ahani?" he asked, not turning. The edge to his voice had dulled considerably as he heard her sit--that was good. Obedience was good. In his fragile state of mind, Raven could only hope that Rosemarie had enough sense to follow orders; it would make things so much easier for the both of them. He repeated his question, in English this time: "What are you doing here?" It was more of a demand than a question. Try as he might, the Indian couldn't find it in him to speak softly, no matter how the hardness in his voice was probably making Rosemarie feel. Because as far as he knew, he was speaking to a traitor. A liar. A snake. Once a term of endearment, he now thought of it as a sort of label--Snake was not one of the kinder spirits. Once, he had been proud of the ex-Hunter's vicious streak (hence the name.) Now, very nearly convinced that she had decided to use it against him, he mistrusted it. It was high time he saw just how far that darkness ran, and just who it was meant to be directed at. Rosemarie had an awful lot of explaining to do--but not now. Not yet. He would wait, and take things one step at a time. Slow and easy does it, he thought, and it was his father's voice he heard in his mind: that had been one of his favorite phrases, especially where hunting--or emotions--were involved. Raven was going to take that advice; if he didn't, he was sure, he would shatter, and all the king's horses and all the king's men wouldn't be able to put him back together again. He had barely clawed his way back up the slippery slope as it was.

[Hmmm. Well, yes I do. XD]

There was a deep sigh that could easily be heard even from across the distance she'd set between them. She flinched slightly at his harsh tone, and she was worried he had saw and he would get angry. She hadn't looked up yet after she saw his back the first time and she thought he had already turned around to face her. Rosemarie couldn't bear to look up and see what was in his face whether it be the look of a dead man, the look of hatred (she thought she was afraid of this one the most), or the sad hollow look she felt was probably on her face. When she answered, it wasn't just to answer him because he ordered her to, but it was also because she wanted to do everything to control his temper and if that meant she answered to please him, she would. "I swear I didn't know you were here. I wasn't following you or anything, I just had to get out." She swallowed loudly, trying to keep her throat open because she was not going to cry. She felt as if she cried anymore, she would shrivel up from dehydration and die. It was a childish thought, but she didn't really care and at the rate she was going, it seemed like a logical one. She thought of all the taunts she'd been given that had forced her to drive herself out of the asylum, and then she thought that she had to clarify she hadn't come because her lover (former lover now?) was there made her want to cry, but she wouldn't.

I can understand that, was Raven's first thought, but of course he didn't speak it aloud. He didn't want Rosemarie calming down, he didn't want to give her any leeway at all--she didn't deserve it. After everything she had done to him, to herself, to them, she didn't deserve a single thing except for a chance to explain herself, and maybe not even that. Still, he was as calm as he was going to get right now, and if he couldn't find it in himself to at least spare her a beating until she really slipped up, then he was a pretty pathetic excuse for a human being. "Ale uha ulenahidá gohiyudi hawinaditlá nihi. Ale tlayeli uwohiyu sakuu siyáwi iyusdi nihi hinegi nigalisdisgágu utli igai. Tsanátasgo hia?" the Indian told her. "I've lost faith in you, Rosemarie. I can't believe a single word you say anymore. Do you know that?" Cherokee first, then English. That was how he was going to have to talk. English was so final; it gave him no time to think about the words that were coming out of his mouth. And he couldn't change them or take them back, either. His native language was going to provide a barrier between the two of them; a barrier he needed more than anything right now. In some back part of his mind, he was hoping that Rosemarie understood. In the rest, he wasn't caring. Not one bit.

Another flinch at the words and the tone. They hurt, oh did they hurt so badly, but they were true, at least somewhat true. Raven had every right to not trust her, but he just didn't know what hell she has gone through because of him too, and didn't understand her situation. She didn't argue with him, of course, she wouldn't dare contradict him right now, probably not ever after what had happened, but it was still how she felt and she would eventually have to tell him. "I know," she said quietly, hating that her eyes were growing hot behind her lids. She was not going to cry, and she wouldn't in front of Raven. It wasn't a possibility, she was going to fight it, and she did. She breathed in deeply then deeply out over and over until she made the tears and the heat in the back of her throat go away. "You have every right to be, but can I explain? Please?" She asked him so timidly, and she lifted her head just a little towards him, though her eyes wouldn't meet him.

"Tsinátadáneli. Winigatsiihá iga, anigisdi gawonisgá." Raven took a moment to turn and face her before he translated the words, and even then several moments passed before he spoke. In that time, he simply looked at her, with eyes as cold and hard as onyx stones. There was no anger in his gaze--not yet, anyway--but there was a significant amount of...something that could only be labeled as mistrust. Was he afraid of the ex-Hunter? Heavens, no. But she was afraid of him, and part of him wasn't sure that that was okay. Part of him wondered what right she thought she had to be afraid, when she had not been the one betrayed. Besides his temper (which he was making an enormous effort to control with a surprising amount of success) he couldn't help but think that Rosemarie had absolutely nothing to worry about--so why on earth did she look so scared? The Indian wasn't sure that he liked that. Still, he was going to give her a chance. One chance. Finally, he translated: "As you wish. By all means, start talking."

She sucked in a breathe to prepare herself to speak, explain herself. She turned her body completely towards him, but she didn't get up and go towards him. It was so strange, her emotions were two completely opposite types of emotions. She wanted to stand on her feet, and approach him then curl up on his lap, enjoy his closeness again. She also wanted to keep his distance, as far as she could and it further confused her more; she didn't know which emotion she wanted to do more. She settled on the one that was probably more safe for the both of them. "Where do you want me to start? There's a lot to explain." They both knew that, but there was so much to choose from she had no idea what to even begin with. She didn't care about explaining why she had has her outburst, in her mind, that was the smallest issue at hand. What she wanted him to know more than anything was the problem that had filled her head since his outburst. She just wanted him to know first and foremost that no, she hadn't lied to him, put him on, or played a game with him, but that she loved him completely and unconditionally, no matter what. That was her main concern and was on she hoped he would want to address first. He just had to know, and maybe she would start with that anyway no matter what he asked.

Raven decided to start simple, at the very root of the problem. "Hnadága nihi udohiyuhi gágeyui ayá?" A pause, a very brief one. "Do you really love me, Rosemarie Toom?" A simple enough question: short, sweet, to the point. This time, he thought the ex-Hunter knew that it would be in her best interests to tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth. He sat with his hands on his thighs, head tilted very slightly to the right, and waited for an answer. For her sake, he hoped Rosemarie had been ready for this question.

"Oh, Raven," came the girl's reply, sad not because her answer was one that would make him sad, but because it was sad that he had to question it. She didn't think when she got up, she was the one working on instinct now when she broke the distance between them and ever so gently pressed a hand underneath his chin, her fingers trailing down the length of his jaw. She was enjoying the sudden closeness, indulging in it, in his warmth, and si she hoped that he wouldn't snap at her for the sudden physical contact. She felt like she needed to be close to him, it just wasn't right to tell him the truth at so far a distance. "You are my gageyui, and I love you so much, truly, truly. I named you for a reason, lover, not because it felt right, but because it was the only way I could think of to prove my emotions are true. You are my Shining Light, my Astádá Ulasigi and if I could physically, emotionally, and mentally love you more than I could, I would, but I don't think it's possible. You really are my light in the dark, I say that honestly. I love you so much, I can't even demonstrate or say how much I do, just please trust that I do. I love you more than I can say or show." Her thumb came up, brushing over his bottom lip and her fingers brushed against the lower part of his jaw. She didn't do anything else, she was afraid any wrong thing she did would set him off. Her eyes glistened brightly, wide and hopeful as they searched his endless gaze that was endlessly cold and seemingly unforgivable. She hoped it was forgivable in the end, after all of this mess was sorted out. "Can I kiss you to prove it?" She asked him, thinking that it wasn't right unless she asked him. It would be rude to just kiss lips that she was convinced were no longer hers to kiss.

As soon as her hands came into contact with his skin, Raven froze--as if he, for once, was the prey who had been caught in some trap. He was completely rigid beneath the ex-Hunter's touch, still as a statue, and not a muscle yielded when she touched his lips with her thumb. Emotions flitted across his face in rapid-fire: shock, anger, confusion, longing, uncertainty, desire, a mask of nothing which broke a moment later and cycled back to anger. And then, for one split-second, there was fear. A flash of terror deep within the depths of dark fire--what was this, some game? What was Rosemarie doing? Was she acting, lying, trying to win his trust again? Or was this sincere, an apology, an attempt to mend things over? The Indian didn't know; it was so spontaneous that he didn't have any idea what to think. So he went into a default response: the walls came up and steel doors slammed closed, enclosing his mind, protecting his heart. He finally moved, though it was only to jerk back and away from the girl who had just called him lover. He stood and started to back away, head shaking back and forth, eyes--so suspicious, so distressed--trained directly on Rosemarie's, as if she really were a snake who had attempted to bite him. And the only word out of his mouth was: "Tla." No. Not a refusal--a denial of access. Raven turned, hopped the fence, and in an instant was gone.

((Fade?))

The Huntress slumped, her hand returning to her lap once again. Her words had not reached him, and again, it was obvious that he did not forgive her. Could she blame him? No, she couldn't, but that didn't make it hurt any less. He had recoiled from her as if he were afraid of her. There was nothing for him to fear, nothing for him to run from, but he did anyways. She watched him go, shocked by his refusal and his leave, yet also, a part of her had suspected that something like that would happen. There was a deep hole in his chest, in his heart because of her, and a few words weren't enough to convince him, neither was a kiss. Rosemarie sat in her guilt beneath the peach tree, trying hard not to cry from the rejection of her love and then failing. Her tears fell for what felt like the millionth time just that week.

[Fade.]

Outside was good. Solace was good. Alone was good. The more time the young Newbury boy spent outside, secluded, pondering on his tortured little mind, the more... decent he became. Harper had suggested that he try some form of meditation; Felix would be lying if he said he didn't feel bad for the poor deaf girl. He was such a hassle nowadays, and every little thing he did was sure to worry her to no end. His masochistic tendencies had accelerated by day forty, and by day sixty he was a pure mess.

Today was day seventy. Seventy days after Ruby's death. The death of his love, of his princess, of his little shadow girl. Counting down the days was pointless, so why did he do it? Did he expect that once he reached a certain number the pain would go away? Did he expect her to come back after one-hundred days?

Honestly, yes. Somewhere, deep down, he foolishly believed that the statements above would be true. Maybe she could come back. Maybe he would stop hurting.

But that was deep down. Every other ounce of the twisted young boy knew that she was gone, that the pain wouldn't stop, that his darker side wouldn't leave him alone.

His darker side. The demon that had taken over the poor young boy, the side that had tormented and brought about his masochism and molded him into the boy he was today. Fragile. Broken. Unstable and demented.

A ticking time bomb.

Today, day seventy, Felix sat underneath the peach tree with an empty, steely expression in place. Harper had all but dragged him outside of his room and set him alone inside the confines of the chain-link fence. His orders were to "think about happy thoughts", but what were happy thoughts anymore? Little inklings that flew about in the air, like hummingbirds. Fleeting to the eye and the hand, and all but impossible to capture. The happy thoughts didn't exist anymore. They were all taken up by the demonic little boy that found his heaven inside the Newbury boy's tormented little mind.

The shiny silver knife rested gently in between his fingers, and for the first time in quite a long time there were no dark intentions in his eyes. Yet. The knife with the ruby and the deer was just... sitting there. Felix's green gaze stared out at it, extended across from him with outstretched arms, but it was clear that Felix's main thought wasn't the knife. One could say that he was zoning out, drowned in his own thoughts and, as was now the norm, trying so very hard not to let the darker side come out.

A heavy sigh escaped Felix's chapped lips. Though it was probably nearly eighty degrees that day, he wore a thin, black, long-sleeved shirt and jeans. As if that didn't rouse enough suspicion, he constantly tugged at his sleeves, making sure they were pulled down far enough to hide the evidence of his struggles. Harper had given him a rather disapproving look as she dragged him out of his dorm, disapproving and disappointed. And a little upset.

But what could he say? She honestly didn't understand the mess that was going on inside his head. No one did.

Felix was all alone in this mess, all alone in the chasm of his mind.

Not entirely alone. There was another boy in the asylum who had just--if even--recovered from one of those messes within the head, and there was a low, metallic rattling of the chain link fence as he leaned against it. "Hello, Felix. It's been a long time." The words were almost purred. The voice, the shadow, the head that was now turned towards the boy and the malice that now shone clearly there; all of it was Raven's. That horrible smile, the wolf grin, hung fully on his lips, and his dark eyes already gleamed. Malice. Hate. Glee. All of it was there, shining in the dark of his eyes. This was his chance. He could finally get back at the little boy, this cocky pain in the ass who had done nothing except for complicate his life. Felix Grayson Newbury was broken in heart and spirit--now all that was left was to break him in mind. He was fighting for control from that demon of his, and he was losing. The Indian could see it all so clearly in those empty blue eyes. Felix was an open book, Felix was clear as crystal and as fragile as glass.

There would be no place left to hide.

And he had the perfect ammunition, the most wonderful trigger in the world: a death. And not just a death, either. The death. The death of Annabel Ruby Wolfe, his shadow girl. His one love. Part of the Indian was actually reluctant to do this--the human part, the part which still housed part of Anna, his dearly departed sister. She was howling at him in the back of his mind, begging him not to, to reconsider, because he was better than that, better than that to bring up death and open fresh (or in this case, putrefying) wounds before pouring on the salt. After all, he had been through so much because of death. Did he really wish that pain on anyone? A little boy? You are better than that! Anna's voice cried. You are! But was he? Was he really? And the answer to that, the answer to that was simply: no.

Raven wanted to see the boy suffer, he could truly and honestly say that he did. He wanted to watch him squirm, cry, even scream. Because he was easy prey, yes--but also because of revenge. Revenge was sweet. No one could savor the taste of it more than the Indian who now leaned against that fence. His anger could burn long and fierce, and his vendettas could last a lifetime. This one with Felix, well, it was no exception. The Indian, in all reality, was not worried about that weapon--what he had come to think of as Felix's own personal "ceremonial knife"--in Felix's hand. In fact, he relished its presence. He knew that with a few words from him, that knife would come flying, and it would be his. Just another tool, another toy which he would use to taunt the boy. It would prompt anger, of course. Rage. White-hot fury. But it would also bring fear to light. Because he knew--he knew--that the little nine-year-old in the heavy black clothes with the empty blue eyes needed this knife. It was one of a kind, and if it was lost, or broken, it would not be replaced. After all, had the deaf volunteer Harper not given Felix a chance? Had he not ruined it? She kept the knife with him out of pity and pity only. Raven knew that, too. She would be relieved if it were to come out of her charge's possession.

From that thought the fear would spring--and Raven lived to see it. No, he was downright looking forward to it, in the same way that the late Ruby herself would have been excited for Christmas Day. Because as everybody knew, the desperate always fought the hardest.

And oh, he was spoiling for a fight.

As the voice sounded, a sort of terror formed in Felix's stomach. He felt like he had fallen into a pit, and was just continuously falling. His stomach fell in synchronization with his heart, and an almost heavy sigh escaped the boy's lips as he raised his dull eyes to those of the giddy psychopath in front of him. Whereas Raven was all but jumping up and down-- his eagerness to torment the already shattered little boy was obvious-- Felix was quite the opposite. Not looking forward to it is not word enough. Felix was dreading this encounter with the Indian. He could see exactly where it would end.

And he would be lying if he said that part of him wouldn't welcome it. Not even the demonic part, but the human part. Just as he welcomed his self-induced pain, under a few layers Felix was welcoming Raven's attack. Maybe Raven would even do the job he had been too terrified to do himself. Would Felix welcome that? Would he welcome the eternal silence?

Upon first thought, the answer to Felix was obvious. Yes. He would have welcomed it. Death was peaceful, death was enjoyable, and death was where Ruby was. He could be there too. But there was no possible way that he would be with his princess. The angelic little girl belonged somewhere he certainly didn't. And that was where Felix hesitated. No, perhaps he wouldn't enjoy death. Perhaps it wasn't the best option for him.

But could it be avoided?

Dull, blank, empty gaze stared forward at Raven, and the boy took a few moments to answer. When he did, his voice was quiet. Calm. Timid, even. Shattered. The only sign of his increasing tension was a tightening on the knife in his hand, just ever so slightly. He didn't even bother to avoid the blade; his hand closed around it just ever so slightly. He wouldn't lose it, not for Raven. He wouldn't give the sadist that pleasure.

Well, at least, he would try his best not to.

"Raven..." Felix started with an almost exasperated sigh, but he caught himself before continuing. The poor little boy shook his head of mousy locks and bit down hard on his bottom lip. "You're right. It has been." Sometimes, pacifism was the best option. If there was any chance of Felix making it out of this alive, he would have to avoid angering the Indian. Despite how much he wanted to throw a knife at him, to beat him senseless and make him hurt as much as Felix himself was, Felix refrained. He knew he couldn't. He knew he wouldn't end up on the winning side of that fight. Despite his initially cocky mindset, Felix wasn't that idiotic. He knew that Raven would win in any situation, and especially considering the poor soul's current state of mind.

A pleading light entered his eyes, just the most subtle of gazes. It almost spoke please. Please just let me be. But Felix knew he was foolish.

The Newbury boy would not leave this encounter unscathed. And part of him welcomed it.

In an instant, Raven was up and over the fence. He didn't jump it; he simply scaled it, much like a squirrel might scale a tree or a gecko a wall--it was easy to do, there were so many holes--and hoped neatly down to the ground on the Newbury boy's side. He dropped to the ground, crossed both legs, nodded his head, and smiled.

It was such an undeniably wolfish smile.

"Yes," he agreed. "You're absolutely right. How long, Felix? Two months? Three? You would know better than I would, for sure. I've had my own problems to deal with, you know, and for a little while I wasn't in much a shape to keep track of anything. But now I'm better--as you can certainly see--and I have the time and the initiative to focus on bigger, more important things. You, for instance. Which brings me back to my question: are you counting the days?" Dark eyes darted to the knife, the boy's arm, back to his face. A knowing glance, so quick but so horribly taunting. "Are you counting the days, Felix? On your arm? With that knife?" And it was so incredibly hard to resist the temptation to grin like an excited schoolboy and bounce a little where he sat. The Indian was that giddy. He did have problems with self-control, on occasion, when certain feelings were overwhelming, and it went for the good ones as well as the bad. Few people knew that, but it was true. Anticipation, elation and pure, unfiltered excitement churned inside of him, shooting through his veins in the form of adrenaline, and that made it almost impossible to sit still.

Almost.

But Raven was strong, and he refrained. He only allowed himself a little chuckle, a quiet, low sound. And it spoke, more than his tongue ever could: I know, little boy. I know it all. How many times have I played this game? How many times have I been in your own situation? Too many to count. And do you know what? I won. I win. I still do. Always.

Felix's expression didn't change. It was dull, blank, unresponsive. Some part of him, deep down, felt a pang as Raven brought up his personal darker tendencies, and the only evidence of that little jolt was a flash of fear in his eyes. It was there for a second and gone the next, hardly even noticeable. But it wasn't as if that had stopped the Indian from noticing it before.

"Yeah, I've been counting." His tone was still empty and quiet. No indication that Raven had picked up on his little issue. No sign that the Indian was right. "So what? I'm allowed to count." That was entire bullshit, and both Felix and Raven knew it. But the Newbury boy had to try. He had to try and put it off as nothing, as nonexistent. If not for himself, than for her. Ruby would be so disappointed in him. And while part of Felix felt like he had a total right to grieve, and a reason for acting as he had, the other part of him knew that he didn't. That nothing could make what he had been doing acceptable.

The little boy looked Raven up and down, and for once, Felix looked his age. Nine and terrified, though he was certainly acting within his best capabilities to cover up his sheer terror. He could almost drink the excitement coming from the Indian before him; it was so thick and sickeningly sweet. Like syrup. A rotten, spoiled syrup.

His eyes darted down to his own knife, and he pulled it closer to him, tightening his fist around it and holding it beside his side. It was too close to Raven. He wouldn't let Raven touch it, because for him, it represented her. And he sure as hell never let Raven touch her.

What's it to you? Felix thought such words, but he didn't say them. He wasn't stupid. He wasn't asking for death. He tried to watch his words, tried to keep the demon under wraps and controlled. But something about Raven just set him off and irritated him even more than usual.

He wanted to tackle the Indian to the ground. He wanted to go after him with fists and blades and everything possible until the Indian was beaten senseless. He wanted to give Raven a little taste of what he had been dishing out for years.

But Ruby wouldn't approve. And, on a more worldly level, Felix wouldn't make it back to his dorm. Or anywhere.

So instead, Felix sat there quietly, silently screaming at the Indian while his exterior remained mostly blank.

Slow, sardonic applause came from the Indian. Clap...clap...clap. "You've certainly gotten better, Mr. Newbury," he said, and his voice was low, pulsing with silent, barely-contained excitement, yes, but also approval. Because he knew that Felix would hate that with every fiber of his being, because it stood against everything Ruby had stood for--and now, everything that he stood for. This praise would no doubt agitate him to no end, become an itch he couldn't scratch, the stinger of a wasp which he could not pull out of the welt. Bringing anger, agitation. But more than that, bringing pain. Raven went on in that same voice: "You know, usdi atsutsa, you're walking down a road well-travelled." The smile, the wolf grin, widened. The sadist had caught the flash of utter terror in what had been an empty blue gaze before, and he knew that he had Felix Newbury right where he wanted him: caught in a trap which was made of wire.

Fierce, barbed wire.

"I've walked down it myself, you know." And the tone to his words became not only low but soft, actually, audibly soft. "Grieving first, denial, then rage, self-harm, emptiness. Brokenness. Isn't that right?" The knowing glance that was shot and the tilt of his head that accompanied it would show Felix several things, if he were perceptive enough to notice them: one, Raven was not lying. He knew exactly of what he spoke. Two, everything that he said--and was about to say, to add insult to injury--had not been planned. He had not wanted to ruin this moment, this game, with precise planning. Too many variables and not enough fun. So he hadn't planned. Every single thing that came out of his mouth was spontaneous, on the spot--and that, in a way, made them better and more perfect than any mental script ever could. Because he was with the times, in the present, Raven could think and adapt to Felix's words and actions as they occurred.

Precisely his game plan, precisely his point.

"And do know what, Mr. Newbury? Felix? We're more alike than you think, you and I." And with these words, the wolf grin grew ever wider. It was clear that the Indian knew almost exactly what to say to hurt the boy, driving the knife (if you will pardon the phrase) right home. It was as if he had written himself a script--but of course he had not. The words were too heartfelt, too perfect for that. "You're on the road to my black land, you know. You may not know it yet, but you most certainly are." A low, genuinely amused chuckle. "Oh, yes. It's hard to imagine, but one day, you'll end up like me. A usdi waya--a true little wolf." And that was a line from a song by Three Days Grace, with is own personal little touches on the end of it to really make it sting. Perhaps Felix had heard the song before. Maybe he would catch the message. Because the very next lines of that song were:

Then he said, if you wanna get out alive
Oh, run for your life.

But one day, you'll end up like me.

Those eight words echoed around in Felix's head, his poor little head that was squeezed tight with the pressure from his darker twin. He could hear them reverberating, hear them twice, three times, four, five, six and more. Over the past seventy days, the young Newbury boy had matured quite a bit, and he could see the complete honesty in Raven's words.

The psychopath was right. Even though he would sooner kill himself than admit it-- which wasn't actually that far of a claim these days-- Felix could see himself becoming more and more like the Indian in the future. He saw it in himself when he let the other little boy take over, he felt it in him constantly. He and the psychotic Indian understood each other a little bit more than either would like to admit. Well, at least more than Felix would like to admit.

But Raven was right. He was oh so right.

The Newbury boy could feel the trap he was snared in. He could feel the barbed wire digging into his skin-- or, actually, the blade of his knife digging into his palm-- and even that pain didn't snap him back into who he would have once been. Had such a tragedy not occurred, Felix would have lunged at the Indian without a second thought. Snapped and shattered and tried his absolute hardest to get the Indian to shut up. Deep down, or maybe not so deep down, that was all Felix wanted to do. But nearly three months of control had built up layer after layer of the new Felix, the broken Felix, the glass Felix.

The Newbury boy of course knew the song. He knew the lyrics and he knew what the next ones were. And he wasn't stupid; he knew what the Indian was trying to tell him. Was it perhaps a warning? No, probably not. Both Raven and Felix knew that Felix wasn't going anywhere any time soon. The implied lyrics stood as more of a taunt, of a jest. Sort of look at what I'm going to do to you. There's nothing you can do about it, either.

And that was absolutely correct. Felix couldn't run. He didn't want to run. If Raven wanted to grant him such a mercy as to do the demon's job for him, then so be it.

Felix didn't answer Raven. He stared straight out ahead of him; the only sign of deep-buried irritation was his tight grip around the blade, the blood beginning to drip down his hand. Ever so subtle, but just as noticeable. Would his silence irritate the birdman? Possibly. Would Felix welcome Raven's irritation? Yes.

And so an answer was not given.

But Felix's silence did not irritate Raven, as the little boy had expected. It did not because he had already been giving an answer, an answer more telling than any threat or plea could ever be: the little boy's hand had tightened around his blade and the blood, bright crimson, was contrasting starkly with the paleness of Felix's skin, making it easier than ever to figure out what had just happened. Felix had drank in his words, thought about them...and found them to be true. "You might unclench your fist now, Felix," he said quietly. "Before you sever a finger." Those, he thought, had been his exact words. Exactly what he had said to the nine-year-old killer in the park, where they had first met. Where he had threatened Ruby, the boy himself, and jeopardized their love. Where he had said that Felix had better watch his back, because trying to play such a dangerous game without knowing the rules would not result in anything good.

Perhaps that would hit a little more home.

Slowly, deliberately, in what was an almost brotherly fashion, the Indian reached out a hand and began to work his finger's underneath the little boy's. He lifted Felix's fingers up, one by one, and then his eyes followed the blade as it fell to the grass and splattered little drops of red against a green backdrop. Raven was not afraid. He knew that, in his state, the worst the child killer would do was yell out. After all, there was nothing threatening about his touch. It was light, gentle, even. There was nothing dangerous about it at all. In fact, someone watching from a distance might have considered the move brotherly.

If not for the way that Raven's eyes followed the blood as it dripped down Felix's hand and out onto his, they would have had to reason to doubt it.

“No.”

The word was quick, the word was cracked, but the word was harsh. In almost an instant, his hand darted down back to the knife in a rapid attempt to pick it up. But he didn’t expect Raven’s hand to be in the way, he didn’t expect the birdman to be right there, and his stomach dropped the minute his hand touched Raven’s. He clenched his hand into a fist, not even bothering to make an outburst at the pain, and was very quickly pulled away from that of the Indian. Eyes wide, innocent, terrified, stared down at Raven’s hand, which now rested above the knife that he himself so cherished.

No no no no no no no no no… His heart sank. The Indian had his knife. Her knife. Very quickly, the tables were turned, and the Indian had all the power in this battle. Was it really a battle anymore? It was more of a harassment. Felix wasn’t fighting back. He wasn’t screaming, he wasn’t crying, he was just… blank. He was taking Raven’s taunts and torments with a blank face and a tightening heart.

And now the Raven had the knife. The only thing that kept Felix sane. If he made it out of this alive without his knife, what would he do? What could he possibly use to make it stop hurting? Harper wouldn’t dare to give him another knife, she would even relish in the loss of the little piece of silver. Felix would without a doubt not be gifted with the knife. His medication would be stepped up as would his security. They might even stick him in an empty room; actually, that wasn’t so far away as it was.

No. He couldn’t have it.

One attempt; a single plea to the Indian that Felix knew wouldn’t get him anywhere. “Raven. Let me have my knife.” His tone was strange-- empty and broken, yes, but also an eerily calm tone to it. Not a good sign. If one were to look deep within Felix, they would see him struggling with his darker twin, struggling to keep him down. He, too, was irritated. Someone had stolen his weapon of choice. Someone had taken his way of tormenting the poor Newbury boy. And the demon was not happy.

The words, of course, were ignored--but not consciously. Rather, it seemed as if Raven hadn't even heard the Newbury boy. His eyes were fixed on the knife, as they had been ever since it had fallen to the ground, and he did not look up at Felix's plea. Indeed, he didn't even twitch. Instead, his right hand--the hand which had been hovering over the knife, the hand which was now stained with the child's blood--came up, and slid the silver ring off of the third finger of his left hand, and opened, letting it fall. There was a pretty, metallic clatter as it landed on the reddened blade of Felix's precious weapon, and the Indian moved it gently aside so that ring and knife lay side by side. He let out a quiet whistle. "Well!" he said softly. "We are more alike than I thought we were."

Two symbols, two prized possessions, now laid beside each other in the grass. Two tiny pieces of silver. And they meant the exact same thing. They were tokens, reminders of people they'd lost. People they'd loved. The only difference was that one was worn, and the other was not.

The Indian tilted his head to one side, studying both his ring and Felix's ceremonial knife on the ground. "It's true, you know," he murmured, and now it was clear that he was talking to the fragile little boy, for his gaze darted up and met his. Dark fire, horrible fire, burned there, and the smile that hung on his lips would have frightened the blind. No more than a courtesy glance was tossed to the trinkets on the ground as Raven picked the knife up and slid the point through his ring. He began to twirl the knife, so that his ring spun around and around on the point of it. Finally, he went on. "Because I know I would be lost without my ring. Just as you will be lost without this knife. What would you give, Felix?" The words were spoken quietly, so quietly. But there was an unmistakable, wolfish glee running beneath them. He smiled. "What would you give for your pretty little knife? What if I decided to take it with me, hmmm? What then? What would you give?"

To Felix, the answer was immediate: Anything. He didn't exactly know if that answer was him, or rather his darker twin, or maybe a mixture of the two. More than likely, the correct answer was the latter. For reasons he couldn't quite describe, both he and his inner devil were on the same page: they both wanted that beautiful silver knife back, though on different agendas. Felix wanted it back because of who it represented. Much like the Indian's ring, that knife was a token of the girl he had lost so unfairly; the knife stood in symbol of Ruby, and to him, loosing it was just as terrible as loosing her. For his darker twin, however, the goal was much more malicious. That knife was his tool, his gateway out into the world. Through that knife he achieved his goals of tormenting the Newbury boy, as well as fulfilling his darker urges upon others.

Both boys needed the knife. And so both boys' immediate answers were anything.

But Felix stopped himself, mouth open wide to say that very word. The Indian was before him, holding all he had left to cherish in his hands. The Indian had all the control. And while that one word had a ten percent chance of returning the knife to the Newbury boys, it had a ninety percent chance of bringing Raven to drastic measures. Snapping it or attacking Felix with it... or snapping it. In all honesty, Felix was less worried about himself being broken than the knife. The knife was all he had. It was all he lived for.

And so the Newbury boys had to think about their response before giving it. They had to be careful; Felix had to be careful. One wrong word, one slip of the tongue, on little peek of his inner demon, and the knife would be gone for good. And so Felix and the little boy were forced to rethink the stated question: what would they give for their pretty little knife?

The green eyes of the Newbury boy looked everywhere, everywhere except for the Indian in front of him. His stomach was a tight pit in his chest, and his heart was beating rapid-fire ammunition. Despite the danger present, Felix wasn't afraid. He wasn't shaking. Should Raven chose to attack him, he would relish the pain. He would revel in the fact that someone else had done such a tedious job for him--

And there it was.

"I'd give you your game, Raven." The words were calm, strong, and yet quietly intense. As he spoke, Felix lifted up his pale, dull gaze to the Indian before him, and for once, not a single ounce of fear shined in those empty eyes. "And I wouldn't tell a single soul. I'd blame it on myself; it's believable at this point."

Raven laughed. It was a quiet, brief, and undeniably terrifying sound. "Oh, Felix," he murmured, and shook his head. "You have no idea, the pain I could cause you. The pain I will cause you, with that kind of leeway." He stopped twirling his ring on the knife, slid it off and back on to his finger, and then began to twirl the small silver blade much like a baton. He looked the little boy up and down, his gaze so horribly, mockingly appraising that it was clear he had torture on his mind. He tilted his head at the Newbury boy, and the smile that parted his lips was smaller than his last but no less frightening. "If I were you," he said softly, "I would think over that answer of yours very, very carefully, Felix Grayson Newbury. Consult your black twin brother, even; see what he thinks. And then tell me for sure. I can wait." And with that, the Indian settled back on his heels, grinning, the knife held daintily between his fingers so that the sun shone on the ruby at its hilt and made it look like a spot of blood. He would give Felix one last chance, he decided. One last chance to cry, or scream, or turn and run. One last chance to beg for forgiveness. And if he didn't take it, then they were going to have a field day. Or rather, he was. If Felix did not change his answer, he was going to have the most wonderful time of making him regret it.

Because he had made no promises. He had never said that with this payment, Felix would get his knife back.

But he knew, in the boy's fragile, confused, and twisted state, that it was a detail he would overlook. He knew that the nine-year-old killer would automatically hold him to words he had not said, because in his mind, any other outcome was unthinkable. Any other outcome was improbable, even. In fact, Felix's thought process was almost too easy to decipher. He thought that if he gave him a chance for revenge, all debts would be paid and his knife would be returned. He thought, the Indian realized with a private chuckle, that he would play by the rules.

But Felix was ignorant. Felix was too consumed by desire and grief. Felix was relinquishing control to his darker demon, and because of this, he had made that one grave, grave error in calculation.

Because Raven was by no means going to play by the rules.

Under normal circumstances, the young Newbury boy would have given a thought to Raven’s hesitation (although that was not the correct word by far). Under any form of normal circumstances, Felix would have found an oddity in the Indian’s words, an oddity in the sort of… warning, almost. An oddity in the fact that Raven did not immediately take him up on his offer. Under normal circumstances, Felix would have understood Raven’s intentions-- or rather, lack thereof. He would have figured out that the knife was not going to be returned.

But Felix was not in any way or place in his right mind, and he wasn’t at all placed under normal circumstances.

Most of the time, when Felix was not in his right mind, his darker twin was. His darker twin was always sane, always calculating, always watching. But even the darker twin didn’t pick up on Raven’s little white lie. The darker twin, too, was panicking. He needed the knife just as much as Felix did. He needed it for his own personal reasons, and then again it wasn’t his life on the line. He didn’t have a problem with putting Felix’s life on the line. He didn’t have anything to lose. He just needed the knife. His knife. Their knife.

Go for it, Felix. I don’t have a problem with it. No lie was present. The darker twin was desperate, and he wasn’t faced with consequences. And Felix relied on his darker twin. He would never admit it, but nowadays, if the dark twin wasn’t there, Felix wouldn’t make it through every day without slitting his wrists vertically. And so Felix trusted the darker twin. He trusted him with his life.

Oh, what a mistake the Newbury boy made.

“Act quickly, before I back out of the deal, Raven.” Ten words. The last ten words that Felix Newbury would speak for quite some time. Ten completely, entirely innocent words.

For once, Raven listened to an order. The hand which was not holding Felix's precious ceremonial knife shot out, wrapped around the young boy's throat, and yanked forward. It twisted him around--the child didn't weight very much anymore, what with his depression having completely diminished his appetite--so that his back was to the Indian, and then it darted down, to one of the Newbury boy's arms, and it twisted. The sadist tossed the knife aside (out of Felix's reach, of course) and used his now-free right hand to give his victim a heavy push, knocking him flat on his stomach. One knee came up, slamming into Felix's back and holding him down, while his right hand gripped his shoulder and the left hand twisted the child's arm up behind his back. Hard, harder, harder still. Raven upped the intensity of his twist every few seconds, giving Felix time to adjust to each new level of pain before ramping it up another notch. His intention, of course, was to break his victim's arm or his shoulder, maybe even both at once. That would bring preliminary pain, just a taste of the agony which would come as minutes passed. An opening act, if you would (if you were to ask Raven, he would tell you that a broken bone was a wonderful way to start any torture session, and the longer it took, the better.) Of course, he had a main performance already forming in his head. He had his grand finale planned out fully. In the time that it would take Felix Newbury's arm to break, the Indian would be completely ready to move on to the next stage of his assault. For now, however, he was simply going to enjoy the show that the little boy beneath him would no doubt provide.

"Nulisdá?" The Cherokee word for 'quickly' was downright purred. Raven had leaned down, so that his voice was right next to Felix's ear. "Act quickly? Oh, you misguided child! You stupid little boy! There's going to be no quickness to speak of, Felix Newbury! As for backing out, well, you're going to be lucky to be able to crawl by the time I'm through with you!" By the end of these words, the Indian was nearly shrieking with mirth. His voice had risen in pitch several octaves (excitement, anticipation, and downright sadistic joy were responsible) and in the same moment, he threw back his head and howled frenzied, sickening laughter at the sky. In that moment, sitting there with a child pinned beneath him and misery on the way, the Indian could not have sounded any more like a wolf. It was clear, in that moment, that Raven had let himself go, that he did not care about revenge or his own twisted version of justice.

No, it was clear that what he cared about was causing pain. The maximum amount of agony over the longest period of time. As far as he was concerned, revenge could go fuck itself. Felix's darker demon could go fuck itself. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. The only thing that had any bearing on the Indian's thoughts at all was the bliss he felt as he finally allowed his walls to crumble, finally allowed his own demons to roam without restraint. It was such a wonderful feeling. Euphoric. Heavenly. Freeing.

Oh, but this was just a taste of how bad it could be, of what was to come.

Felix had no idea what he had gotten himself into.

Instantly, Felix regretted his decision. Well, at least part of Felix did. Most of Felix did. He wasn't about to lie; it hurt. A lot. It hurt more than anything he had done to himself before. And physically, it hurt more than anything Raven had put him through before. More than anyone had put him through before. And yet there was that other part of Felix. His darker side. His twin that was so masochistic, so set in a vendetta against Felix, that he was enjoying it. Yes, part of Felix enjoyed the pain. Relished in it. But the other half, well, the other half was in tears. No metaphor, no exaggeration, no nothing. The pain brought tears springing to Felix's eyes, but he wouldn't cry for Raven. He couldn't cry for Raven. He wouldn't dare to give him that pleasure.

Or, rather, so he told himself.

Snap. Now that brought a scream from the lips of Felix Newbury. When he had signed up for this, Felix had told himself he wouldn't let himself scream, wouldn't give Raven that pleasure. But even the young Newbury wasn't that strong. The snap of an arm and shoulder, mere seconds apart, brought a cry of pain from the boy underneath the Indian. His eyes were squeezed tight in pain, and Felix bit down hard on his bottom lip in an attempt to stifle the screaming, the crying, and whatever else was coming out of his lips. Expletives, cries, pleas... Everything. Felix wasn't in his right mind, and instead a pained, masochistic, violent stupor.

What the fuck did I sign up for?

Oh, my dear Felix, enjoy it while you can. This is the most pain you'll have for a long time.

Are you happy you fucking psychopath?

Ecstatic.

Felix's inner struggle was never more clear, never as pronounced as it was at this moment. He could hear his darker twin as if he stood next to him; he supposed it was better than hearing his own screams and pleas. He was weak, he was spineless, and he was a quivering baby.

Oh, Christ, what had he done?

Raven had to admit, he was duly impressed. He had never imagined that such a small pair of lungs would be able to make all that noise, never thought for a second that Felix Newbury were so weak so as to give into the pain immediately, to scream and cry and beg and curse and writhe like the helpless create he was (for how strong, really, was man?) In fact, this level of reaction almost surprised the Indian. It almost shocked him into ceasing. Almost.

But the high. The high.

It felt as if some giant hand had thrown him up, catapulted him all the way up to cloud nine. The symphony of horror that the child killer was producing was downright beautiful, music to his ears. In fact, the Indian thought that he could have sat and simply listened to the boy as he nursed two broken bones--well, he could have if there weren't more pressing matters to attend to, anyway. Deftly, with a quickness that was almost startling considering the fact that his laugh attack had not ceased, Felix's assailant hopped off the boy, pressed down on his broken arm, and flipped him over so that he was belly-up. Were the killer to open his eyes, he would see Raven looming above him, smiling so widely it was a wonder his face didn't split, eyes burning dark fire. Joyous, terrible dark fire.

"Felix!" he cried out, through his laughter, and the glee in his voice was unmistakable. "Oh, God, Felix, stop! Stop it, you awful child! You're going to make me bust a gut!" It almost seemed as if he were mocking the Newbury boy, pleading for mercy as Felix himself pleaded--just from euphoria and not pain. Indeed, for a moment it seemed like Raven was lost to the world, fully consumed by his own personal high, his own wonderful fix. It was several moments, perhaps closer to a minute, before he was able to calm himself enough to stop the manic laughter. But finally he did, and when it happened he was left grinning, looming over his victim, out of breath and chest heaving, hands twitching anxiously, more than ready to begin a next assault. He would wait, though. He would force himself to wait. Let Felix stew in his pain, his misery, for a moment. Let him have a chance to feel dread.

Finally, he broke the silence. With a loud yell ("Agilyoasdi!") that was almost like a battle cry, the Indian slammed his left fist square into Felix Newbury's mouth, his ring splitting the boy's lip, knocking out at least one tooth. "Hush!" he crowed, with horrible mirth in his voice. "Hush, now, child. You'll bring someone out." Of course, there was no way that the little boy would be able to scream or cry anymore--that one solid punch made sure of that. Raven was simply mocking the child, and he took a terrible, sadistic pleasure out of doing so.

The main show was coming. But he would wait.

Felix, in an odd turn of events, had proved to be very, very worth his while.

And the Newbury boy fell silent. In all honesty, he didn't have much of a choice at this point. When Raven's personal piece of silver connected with his jaw, there was a pop, a few cracks, and the taste of iron. Salty, tangy iron. Now, Felix was very used to the smell of blood, but the taste was very different. Salty, even. Not exactly something he was used to. And Christ, how it hurt. Had Felix even been able to feel his mouth, his lips, his jaw, or anything, he would have screamed. He would have screamed and kicked and cried out and given Raven as hard of a time as he possibly could. But as of right now, that was not within the poor boy's capability.

It was hard to breathe. Felix couldn't feel... Well, Felix couldn't feel anything as a matter of fact. Anything except for his beating heart, which fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird, almost too fast to count. For the time being, that was the Newbury boy's rock: his heart. His heart and his constant arguing with his darker twin. In all honesty, Felix was clinging onto his dark twin like he was a life raft. He hated to admit it, but giving into the sadistic Newbury was honestly looking to be his best option for right now.

Fuck no, I'm not taking this for you. You asked for it.

Oh, so now you don't want to come out? I thought you were dying to see the outside world.

Not like this, do you think I'm stupid?

And then the broken boy was shoved off, pushed away and left to rot. And then the darker twin was gone. For the first time in a long time, Felix was alone in his head. There was no one to hide behind, no one to send out in his place, no one to distract him.

What perfect fucking timing.

Oh, but it was. The timing could not have been any more perfect. Raven saw the rage die in Felix Newbury's eyes, saw the battle with his darker demon as it ceased, watched as everything, all the fight and anchorage to sanity, left the child. It could not have delighted him more--he'd just been given a signal! The nine-year-old killer had just told him to proceed, just advocated for his own downfall. He had just given the essential cue.

It was time for the main show.

The Indian wasted no time in retrieving Felix's ceremonial knife (and oh, the irony! He would use this weapon to do exactly what Felix himself had sworn off doing but desired to do, deep down in his twisted mind.) The smile, the wolf grin, was huge on his face as he murmured, "What's happened to you, Felix? What's wrong? Have you been abandoned? Your last hope, has it left you?" There was a brief bark of laughter before he went on, in the same joyous voice: "It has! I can tell! I know what abandonment feels like, Mr. Newbury. I know. Oh, spirits, I know it so well." It was as he was talking that he finally got around to yanking his victim's shirt up, so that it revealed his small, scarred chest. It did not go high enough to cover his face of curse, no--the Indian wanted the little boy to see the knife as it came down. He wanted him to watch his mark as it developed, he wanted him to feel acutely the helplessness that did come with abandonment, wanted him to realize as he lay there that he was, for once, completely and utterly powerless.

Raven set the knife point against the bare skin of Felix's chest. He allowed it to dig in a little, surely enough to merit a wince, and he smiled as he did it. "You love your Ruby, Felix, don't you?" he purred. "Your darling Annabel, your shadow girl, your broken princess. Hmmm? Isn't that true? You love her all the way down in the twisted depths of that little heart of yours." He did not wait for a response--he knew what the child's would be, anyway. Raven was high on the moment, and did not want to risk losing his euphoria by waiting too long. No, he would get straight to the point (and he relished the pun.)

He would start the main show with a bang.

"I'm going to carve her name into your chest, Felix Newbury," he told the boy. Softly, so softly. "And you're going to watch me do it. You're going to feel every single rake of your pretty little knife when I cut in the letters. I warn you: it's going to get messy. You're going to hear a lot of...sounds. If you've ever gutted an animal, you should know exactly what I'm talking about." The Indian felt no need to elaborate, but his smile did widen at the mention of a mess. "It won't take very long before the air starts smelling, either--I'm going to make the letters nice and big. If the smell of blood doesn't do to you what it does to me--that is to say, if it doesn't excite you in the least--you might want to force yourself into unconsciousness soon. Very soon. Because if I'm to be any judge, it's going to get very cloying, very fast." A long, low chuckle. Mocking, horribly amused, so awfully pleased that it was almost sickening. Raven was looking forward to Felix's reaction; he relished the thought of it.

Finally, he finished with a simple stinger line: "What do you think, Mr. Newbury, hmmm? What do you think of my plan? Your demon, does he like it? Do you like it? Hmmm? Because I do." And now he leaned forward, so that his lips were right next to the child killer's ear when he next spoke. "I do, you know. I like it because I know, deep inside, that you won't. That you'll hate it, because it stands against everything your precious Ruby Wolfe stands for. You and I both know how much she hated it when you cut."

... Oh god.

Felix had hardly a second to answer Raven, to think about what he had said and give some form of a cry, a scream, an outburst, something. Anything except for just lay there and stare blankly at the Indian. But there wasn't much else that Felix could manage. He couldn't kick out; Raven may not have weighed much but atop the child killer he felt like a piece of lead, crushing his lungs and probably his legs. His mouth didn't work, and his throat was beginning to swell from sheer panic. No more sounds would be escaping Felix Newbury. No more shrieks, no more curses, no more anything.

That is, until the knife was plunged into his own chest.

Now, it is true that it was impossible for the Newbury boy to scream. But as the blade tore through his skin, something almost like a scream escaped his lips. A pitiful, childlike sound came from the Newbury boy, and Raven was right. All Felix could smell, could taste, was the blood. It filled his nose and made him sick-- even after months and months of seeing his own blood drip freely from his wrists, the smell was still not something one could exactly get used to. Although Felix was willing to bet that Raven was used to the smell, that fucking psychopath.

His darker twin watched with gaze of anticipation, with a gleeful smile in place. Oh, how he was enjoying this. It wasn't even work! The boy he all but controlled, the boy he shared a body with, the boy he wished nothing but death and despair upon, was facing those two very things as the seconds ticked by. Felix made an attempt to slip out of his own body, to watch from the sidelines like his twin, but oh no, the demon wasn't having that. The poor boy was kept in his body to feel every single tear through skin.

Raven was right; it was much like gutting an animal. Felix began to pity the poor creatures, because this was just... awful. Excruciating. He could feel the individual letters being carved, could feel the knife plunging in as a new letter was started. And he could feel the Indian laughing upon him. Of course, the sick fucker was enjoying it. What else was Felix to expect?

The little Newbury boy began to feel himself waving in and out of consciousness, but he knew that would ruin the Indian's fun. Maybe that's why he tried so hard to succumb to the black seas of sleep. But whenever he would get close to drowning, a slice and a stab would bring him back to the surface.

Oh, poor little Felix Newbury. What had he possibly gotten himself into?

R-U-B-Y. Four capital letters, all the same size

(I'm going to make them nice and big)

carved horizontally into the small boy's chest. Four capital letters, all the same size, now glittering red, bright red, in the area just over Felix Newbury's heart. The knife in Raven's hand was red, the word on the boy's chest was red, their shirts were red--splattered with blood--the ground was red, the sky was red. The sky! The sky was crimson, dreadful, harrowing crimson, and the clouds were crying garnet tears. Raven's head was thrown back up to that bloody sky, his bloody sky, and he was laughing, laughing like a man who has just personally been shown heaven and has gone mad from the beauty of it.

Who knew, perhaps he had.

"It's so beautiful," the Indian murmured, finally turning back to the boy. His grin was vicious, burning with the fever of insanity. The smile of a wolf, a dead man, a demon. He ran the knife along the bare flesh underneath Felix's brand new mark, not hard enough to cut, but enough to smear the blood on the blade along his pale skin. "I doubt that you can see what I see, but it's true. So beautiful. Everything is red, Felix. You, me, the knife, your love, the world. Everything is so dazzlingly, beautifully red." His voice had taken on an odd, dreamlike quality, as if, indeed, he was in some personal heaven and not on the earth. In a way, that was true: he was. Raven didn't understand how anything could get better than this. Surely, he would soon die from the bliss of it. Surely the euphoria would soon kill him. He would die here, in his own heaven, surrounded by the marvels of the red world.

And truly, he wouldn't even mind. He did not think that he had ever been so utterly, blithely content as he was now. He did not think that the world had ever been so radiant, did not think that screams had ever sounded so beautiful, did not believe for one single second that he had ever felt anything so heavenly as this, what he was feeling now. This high, this euphoria. It was too much.

But as we know, all things, both good and bad, must come to an end. And what finally brought the Indian sadist back into reality was his own piece of silver, his pretty little ring. The symbol of his sister. In a way, it was almost Anna herself that returned him to his body (but not his right mind, no; no spirit in the world was powerful enough to do that now.) It was almost as if she were there in his crimson heaven, dressed herself in blood, and pushing him down. Easing him back with gentle hands and whispered words and a loving, worried embrace. Ayá unayehisdi nasginai nihi, dinadanátli. In that moment, as his consciousness returned to him, Raven could have sworn that he heard the words. I fear for you, brother.

But before he had time to think about it, to dwell on the possibility that she might have been there in his red heaven, and speaking to him, he snapped back into himself. In an instant, clarity returned to his gaze, his fists unclenched around the silver knife--he could actually see it as silver again--and the dreamy smile on his lips disappeared. He gave a quick, almost irritated shake of his head, and almost asked what had just happened; but then he remembered where he was and who he was and what he was doing, and he caught himself at the last moment. Now would not be a good time to show weakness. Instead, he simply looked at Felix, and he smiled. "Well!" he said softly. "That was...interesting. You just can't stop causing trouble for me, can you, Felix? Not even as I carve out parts of your chest." He gave a brief, low chuckle. "Mmmm. That's all right, though. I think, now, that all my debts have been paid off. Thank you, Felix. Thank you for treating me to this wonderful, wonderful time of ours."

And with that, he rose up so that he was on his knees instead of crouching down, and cleaned first the blade and then his hands on the little boy's shirt. He was not done yet; almost, but not quite.

There was one more thing he had to attend to.

Slowly, deliberately, Raven lowered the now-shining piece of silver so that the sharp edge rested against his victim's lips, bent down, and whispered into his ear: "Remember, Mr. Newbury, you made me a promise. If you decide to break it--if you tell a single soul what happened to you here today--I get to cut out your tongue."

And it was then, only then, that he left. Almost as soon as he said the words, Raven was gone.

The Newbury boy was stunned. Dazed, confused, and in excruciating pain. It didn’t even hit him that the Indian had taken his knife; of course it would much later and the poor boy would be a mess (well, even more of a mess than he already was). But that beautiful silver knife with the deer and the ruby was the last thing on Felix’s poor mind right now. His arm and shoulder were throbbing, and any attempt to move them brought a cry of pain from the boy. The taste of blood in his mouth was strong, and a similar effect was taken when he attempted to open his jaw: excruciating pain. There were of course bruises, mostly from where the Indian had sat atop his lungs and his legs, though a few Felix could attain to punches. He thought.

The worst blow was his chest. It hurt, it hit home, and it was a constant reminder. The Indian had clearly thought this out for quite a long time before actually putting it into action. Felix knew it said Ruby; he could feel the letters as they were carved into his chest. Blood was all but gushing from the four bright letters, and the crimson was dripping down and staining the Newbury boy’s chest. R-U-B-Y. The name that would forever haunt him, forever send him into violent tears and even more violent tendencies.

The darker twin rejoined Felix just as the Indian left. Much unlike Raven’s apparition of his sister, the twin was not there for comfort. Much the opposite, as a matter of fact.

Well? What are you doing laying there, you fucking wimp? Get up!

I need help.

Bullshit. You are not getting anything. Now get your sorry ass up and go after him!

No.

Wow. Was it truly as simple as that to say now to his darker twin? In an instant after the word, a sense of solitude joined the poor Newbury boy on the grassy floor. Just one word, and his inner demon left to attend to more pressing business. Part of the young Newbury boy felt relieved; if it was that easy to get rid of the devil, then he could keep him at bay. But even though he relished in this fact (or did he?), Felix knew that it wasn’t that easy. Even the darker twin was weakened; as Felix lay there in a pool of his own blood, practically dying, his twin, too, was in pain. They were connected, and unfortunately for the demon, Felix’s strength was his own.

Felix held more power over the dark twin than he thought.

But not of that was on Felix’s brain right now. Neither was the loss of his knife. None of the negativity from this situation had hit him just yet. The poor boy was having trouble breathing, staying conscious, and working his brain. Dear god, how he needed help. He would bleed out on the grassy floor underneath the peach tree if he didn’t do something soon. And as his vision began wavering in and out, bleeding out began to seem like a looming future for the poor tortured boy.

But no. He wouldn’t give Raven that pleasure. He wouldn’t dare. For once, not for Ruby. For his own integrity.

The beaten boy sat up with a cry of pain and a quick hand to the bleeding words on his chest. Lucky he had been wearing a black shirt; the blood didn’t peek through all too much when he pulled his shirt down. One arm hung limp beside him, and even sitting up brought an immense pressure to his chest and made it even harder to breathe.

He had to survive. He had to. He had to do this.

Bravely, the Newbury boy made an attempt to stand. Almost immediately his vision blackened and the poor boy felt dizzy beyond anything he had ever felt before. He fell back against the tree, and very quickly slid back down to the grassy floor. Before he knew it, Felix was out cold. The dark, endless seas of unconsciousness overtook the tortured boy, and his body lay limp underneath the peach tree, in a puddle of his own blood. It was only thirty minutes later that someone found his unconscious form. Of course everyone knew the tragic tale of the poor Newbury boy, and so there was no hesitation as a nurse was called and the twisted boy was taken straight to the infirmary.

The only sign left of the fight-- moreso harassment, beating, torture-- was the puddle of blood. A few little drops rested almost a meter away from the puddle, presumably where Raven had stood as he began walking away. But nothing else brought any suspicion to the Indian. And Felix never uttered a word.

How good it felt to be outside!

Not just outside, but out and away from the dark asylum, away from the big men who liked to watch him a lot. Away from everything and everyone, except for the strawberry blonde who was walking with him. He had been part of the deal, the only reason why he was even up here. That didn't bother Eric Newbury much, though. He was just happy to be somewhere where he could play. Playing would have to wait a moment, though, because the boy who talked to food was rather tired from the stroll up to the tree from the asylum. He had almost not been able to go because of this very reason. The doctors told him that Morgan wasn't in the best of shape to take him up to the tree, that he should find someone else. He had insisted that he didn't have anyone else to go with him and he really wanted to go. They had complied, but reluctantly and they had made him swallow a big pill that they said would make him feel a bit stronger. A super pill, he thought, not knowing they were actually giving him steroids. They had helped a little, but he was still tired and winded. With a heavy sigh, the Newbury boy sat down underneath the tree and offered a wide smile to Morgan though she couldn't see it. He almost wanted to assure her.

((Newbury? c; ))

The little strawberry blonde, too, was not exactly in the mood for playing, but for an entirely different reason than the little boy she was accompanying. She of course wasn't going to turn him down; if the Jacobsen boy wanted out, then she would be happy to oblige. Despite the warnings from the nurses that had been all over her since her incident with... him, Morgan made her way up to the peach tree. She was freshly bandaged and had been given a pill to help with the... anxiety, they called it? The doctors told her that it would be something to make it easier to be social with Eric.

Morgan could feel the fresh wound on her side beginning to get irritated by the bandage, but Morgan didn't exactly make it obvious. She opened the gate to the peach tree, fumbling for a moment before finding the latch, and followed Eric into the little confined area. It had been a rather quiet trip up to the peach tree, as Eric was exerting himself and Morgan was... well, Morgan was off. And Morgan still didn't speak. She simply made her way to underneath the tree, pressed her back against the bark, and slid down it with a long sigh.

At least Eric seemed happy.

[I'm an idiot... Felix is stuck in my head!!!!]

The Jacobsen boy had managed to catch his breath by the time the blind girl had caught up to join him underneath the tree. Before, he had been entirely focused on not over exerting himself on the mile trek up to the tree. Now his breathing was back to normal and he noticed how quiet his little friend was now. Except for her sigh, and that sigh was a very long sigh that didn't sound happy. Come to think of it, she had been quiet the entire time. Frowning slightly, Eric turned his head against the trunk of the tree, now facing the curly-haired girl. "Are you okay, Morgan?" He inquired, sounding the slightest bit upset, or maybe that was worry. "You've been kinda quiet today."

She was silent a few moments more, pondering over her answer. She could say no. She could be honest. She could tell Eric about what had happened, how it had happened, why it had happened. But at the same time, she couldn't. Raven would know. Raven would find out. And for once, the little strawberry-blonde knew that being on that side of Raven's anger would not be her best decision, especially not right now. And so Morgan shook her head and glued a smile into place. It seemed rather fake, rather forced, and it truly was. But that smile was still there, masking her ailments that were so suddenly new. "I'm fine," she reassured her friend, reaching a hand up to play with her loose curls. Nothing more was said; nothing more could be said. Morgan simply left it at that.

Eric's frown deepened more ever so slightly at the smile. It reminded him of smiles his mother had given him when he found her crying at the table after a fight with his father. She would smile that same smile and assure him that everything was okay and that everything would be okay. It hadn't been then, and maybe it wasn't now. Maybe he was wrong, that was a possibility too, and that was okay. Eric would have liked to have been wrong then. "Okay," he said with a nod, smiling back at her with a small little grin that was just as faked as hers and just as half-hearted. He sighed loudly, breathing in the smell of the peaches. They were like nothing he'd ever smelled before, better than all the wildflowers around his home back in North Carolina. "It sure is pretty up here," he commented with a glance around the area. For a moment, he again forgot that Morgan wouldn't know. The beauty of the peach tree on top of the hill was nothing but blackness in her eyes.

At this, Morgan laughed. Her laugh was quiet, and it wasn't as filled with her innocent joy as it usually was (what innocent joy? she didn't have innocence anymore), but the laugh was genuine. The little curly-haired girl shook her head with a tiny smile in place. "I'll take your word for it, then. It sure does smell good, though." The tiny girl straightened her back and sat up from where she was laying against the tree, and a little grimace came into place as she did. Goodness, for such a minor wound it sure hurt a lot. Morgan did have to remind herself, however, that it could have been worse. It could have been so much worse. "Tell me what it looks like, Eric?" More of a question than a demand.