Bloodstained Vest
Rated: T
N2 on Fic Bingo! "The bloodstained vest creeps Eugene out."
It was a silent walk to Eugene’s room - his temporary room. Who knew how long he'd stay there. Maybe the evening, maybe an hour, he wasn’t sure. It certainly didn’t look like a room where anyone would spend a considerable amount of time.
It wasn’t really bleak. The comforter on the bed was made of rich fabrics, and all the little metal fixtures were sculpted to look like flowers or dragons or something. He had a breathtaking view of the ocean, one he’d dreamed about yet was unable to appreciate in his current state.
But there was something about it that wasn’t quite welcoming. It was functional over homely, and he bet that every room in this wing looked exactly the same, down to the cookie-cutter fixtures and comforters made in bulk. It was a place to sleep and wash up, but that was it.
The guard gave him a suspicious look and Eugene grinned at him and waved, causing the guard to huff and stomp out, shutting the door behind him with a decisive click.
The grin slipped off Eugene’s face, and he ran a hand over his grimy face and up into his hair. He felt disgusting in more ways than he would have thought possible.
He hadn’t changed clothes in… who knew how long, and even though he’d nearly drowned in lake water, that hardly counted as a bath. Besides, since then he’d spent the night in prison, charged half way across the country, and then died.
He felt dizzy and anxious and sick to his stomach, and for some reason his hands could not stop shaking. Nerves or blood loss, he wasn’t really sure.
He made his way to the washroom and filled the bowl with water from a pitcher. Even those were rich without the feel of something unique. He splashed some water on his face and scrubbed at his hands, and immediately the water clouded with dirt and sweat. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he couldn’t see himself, only how pale his skin was, the prickly stubble along his jaw, and the numb exhaustion in his eyes. He stared, not really seeing, arms braced on either side of the water bowl. Slowly his gaze sunk down to his side, to the rip in his vest, to the dark stain of blood.
And then he couldn’t get his vest off fast enough. He fumbled with the clasps and shrugged it off with disgust, trying to touch it as little as he possibly could, ripping his shirt from his pants and tugging it over his head, peeling the fabric from his skin where it was sticky and soaked in blood, getting his arms caught in the tight sleeves that he hadn’t bothered to unroll. There was still blood crusted on his stomach, just below his ribs, dark and flaky and his, and his heart sped and his head spun as he scrubbed viciously with a bar of soap, dribbling soap bubbles everywhere, and darkening the water further, this time with his blood.
There was nothing under the mess on his stomach. Not a wound. Not the pale, pink mark of a scar. Nothing. It was like it never happened. Except that he was ill and the vest was sitting there, crumpled on the counter, ripped and soaked in blood, and oh shit he had died in that vest.
He grabbed it, dunking it into the water, and scrubbing and scrubbing until his finger were raw and pruney and the world spun beneath him, the image of the bloodstain burning into his eyes. The stain faded but refused to disappear, and the whole wet patch on his vest took on a brownish tinge. He realized he was soaking his hands in his own blood and dropped the vest to scrub wildly at his hands.
His knees gave out and he sunk to the floor to bury damp hands in his hair, stare at the tiles, and hold back his ever rising nausea.
He didn’t know how long it was before Rapunzel appeared and he pushed himself to his feet to answer the door, to smile at her and thank her for the change of clothes she brought, to smirk and arch and eyebrow at her when she blushed. The new clothes were nice - similar to his own, but different enough to ease his breathing. They were made of lush fabrics, but somehow felt like they were lacking in personality. Like they had been mass-produced. Like they weren’t his. He was just borrowing them.
Rapunzel smiled when he strolled out of his room. “You look nice.”
He smirked at her. “Thanks.”
“What should we do with your old clothes? Do you want them washed?”
“Nah,” he said, throwing an arm over her shoulders and pulling her against his side. “Burn them.”
N2 on Fic Bingo! "The bloodstained vest creeps Eugene out."
It was a silent walk to Eugene’s room - his temporary room. Who knew how long he'd stay there. Maybe the evening, maybe an hour, he wasn’t sure. It certainly didn’t look like a room where anyone would spend a considerable amount of time.
It wasn’t really bleak. The comforter on the bed was made of rich fabrics, and all the little metal fixtures were sculpted to look like flowers or dragons or something. He had a breathtaking view of the ocean, one he’d dreamed about yet was unable to appreciate in his current state.
But there was something about it that wasn’t quite welcoming. It was functional over homely, and he bet that every room in this wing looked exactly the same, down to the cookie-cutter fixtures and comforters made in bulk. It was a place to sleep and wash up, but that was it.
The guard gave him a suspicious look and Eugene grinned at him and waved, causing the guard to huff and stomp out, shutting the door behind him with a decisive click.
The grin slipped off Eugene’s face, and he ran a hand over his grimy face and up into his hair. He felt disgusting in more ways than he would have thought possible.
He hadn’t changed clothes in… who knew how long, and even though he’d nearly drowned in lake water, that hardly counted as a bath. Besides, since then he’d spent the night in prison, charged half way across the country, and then died.
He felt dizzy and anxious and sick to his stomach, and for some reason his hands could not stop shaking. Nerves or blood loss, he wasn’t really sure.
He made his way to the washroom and filled the bowl with water from a pitcher. Even those were rich without the feel of something unique. He splashed some water on his face and scrubbed at his hands, and immediately the water clouded with dirt and sweat. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he couldn’t see himself, only how pale his skin was, the prickly stubble along his jaw, and the numb exhaustion in his eyes. He stared, not really seeing, arms braced on either side of the water bowl. Slowly his gaze sunk down to his side, to the rip in his vest, to the dark stain of blood.
And then he couldn’t get his vest off fast enough. He fumbled with the clasps and shrugged it off with disgust, trying to touch it as little as he possibly could, ripping his shirt from his pants and tugging it over his head, peeling the fabric from his skin where it was sticky and soaked in blood, getting his arms caught in the tight sleeves that he hadn’t bothered to unroll. There was still blood crusted on his stomach, just below his ribs, dark and flaky and his, and his heart sped and his head spun as he scrubbed viciously with a bar of soap, dribbling soap bubbles everywhere, and darkening the water further, this time with his blood.
There was nothing under the mess on his stomach. Not a wound. Not the pale, pink mark of a scar. Nothing. It was like it never happened. Except that he was ill and the vest was sitting there, crumpled on the counter, ripped and soaked in blood, and oh shit he had died in that vest.
He grabbed it, dunking it into the water, and scrubbing and scrubbing until his finger were raw and pruney and the world spun beneath him, the image of the bloodstain burning into his eyes. The stain faded but refused to disappear, and the whole wet patch on his vest took on a brownish tinge. He realized he was soaking his hands in his own blood and dropped the vest to scrub wildly at his hands.
His knees gave out and he sunk to the floor to bury damp hands in his hair, stare at the tiles, and hold back his ever rising nausea.
He didn’t know how long it was before Rapunzel appeared and he pushed himself to his feet to answer the door, to smile at her and thank her for the change of clothes she brought, to smirk and arch and eyebrow at her when she blushed. The new clothes were nice - similar to his own, but different enough to ease his breathing. They were made of lush fabrics, but somehow felt like they were lacking in personality. Like they had been mass-produced. Like they weren’t his. He was just borrowing them.
Rapunzel smiled when he strolled out of his room. “You look nice.”
He smirked at her. “Thanks.”
“What should we do with your old clothes? Do you want them washed?”
“Nah,” he said, throwing an arm over her shoulders and pulling her against his side. “Burn them.”