Inell's Fanfiction Archive

She doesn’t remember warmth.

There’s a corner in the back of her mind where she can vaguely recall sunshine and lazy days spent outside with her friends but she can no longer remember how the rays of the sun feel as they kiss her face, no longer clearly remember the features of her friends. She does know fire but it never warms her, not anymore. Instead, it stands for a reminder of all that she’s lost.

All she knows now is cold. Her room is cold, the floor is cold, the stone walls are cold. It surrounds her, suffocates her, makes her claw at her own skin as it crawls deep inside her very soul. She never sleeps; it is unnecessary now. She lies on the large mattress in this cold room and feels nothing save for thirst, hunger, guilt. The guilt is what suffocates her. She feels the cold, the grip of guilt on her very soul, and she gasps for breath no longer needed.

He finds it amusing, a cruel twist of fate that allows him even more control. He watches her and tempts her, knows what she is experiencing and takes delight in watching her shatter. He breaks her with words, with touch, with laughter in his voice as he hurts and claims. He will never destroy her, she vows even as she claws at his cool skin and drinks from his offered wrist.

She is a pet he keeps for entertainment, locked in a cold room with nothing but her guilt and a slither of moonlight visible through a window far above her head. When he feels generous, he allows her to leave the room and join the others. Pretty dress, hair falling down her back in waves of crimson, a chain around her throat to remind her she belongs to no other, and a fresh kill still alive with blood pumping through their veins and a heartbeat so loud that she can hear nothing else for days after.

He laughs when she resists the calling, the lust for fresh blood warm on her tongue, and he whispers in her ear until the desire is too much and she attacks. She kills them fast, wanting their suffering to end unlike her own which is endless. Then he takes here there in front of them all, pretty dress soaked with blood, chain pulling tightly around her throat as he drives into her repeatedly for all to see.

When he finishes, he takes her back to her room. He taunts her, reminds her of who she once was before her life became cold, tells of the torture and death of all she those she has ever loved, and then he locks her away again. Until the next time he seeks amusement. She curls up on the mattress and stares at the slither of moonlight high above, the cold seeping into her skin until she forgets who she was, who she is, and who she will always be. She knows only cold and memories, guilt and lust, and swears he will never break her completely.

She doesn’t remember warmth.

The End